The Power of Positive
Contents
~The Power of Liking Yourself~
1. Brick by Brick, Sarah Darer Littman
2. The Little Voice, Harriet Cooper
3. Battling My Inner Bully, Sara Matson
4. The List, Monica A. Andermann
5. Positive People Preferred, Please, Syndee A. Barwick
6. Feeling Lucky, Diane Stark
7. No More Excuses, Linda C. Defew
8. The Honors Class, Jennie Ivey
~The Power of Attitude~
9. Making Chicken Soup in Prison! Mickey Sherman
10. Feeling Like a Superhero, Catherine Mattice
11. Bloom Where You Are Planted, Annmarie B. Tait
12. Easy as A, B, C, Dorri Olds
13. Re-Attaching, Garrett Bauman
14. The Adventure of Change, Gail Molsbee Morris
15. Perspective, L.R. Buckman
16. Strong Enough to Ask for Help, Saralee Perel
17. Nurse and Patient, Sidney Anne Stone
~The Power of Persevering~
18. The Strength, Gary Duff
19. Blind Faith, Angela C. Winfield
20. Rolling Uphill, Sheila Seiler Lagrand
21. Chutes and Ladders, Hollye Dexter
22. My Husband the Winner, Carine Inez Nadel
23. Just Reward, Karen Lewis Jackson
24. I Named Her Lily, Galen Pearl
25. Just Finish, Sara Celi
26. Gardening with My Son, Conny Manero
27. Taking Time to Listen, B. Lee White
~The Power of Relaxing~
28. Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, Pamela Rose Hawken
29. The Healing Power of Toilet Paper, Toni Becker
30. Try a Smile, Ferida Wolff
31. Eighty-Five Percent, Terri Elders
32. Uncovered, Tom Kaden
33. The Onion Room, Sally Willard Burbank
34. Becoming the Sunflower, Lisa Wojcik
35. Being a Positive Expert, Shirley Dunn Perry
36. The Gift Horse’s Mouth, Sue Henninger
~The Power of Gratitude~
37. The Thank You Note, Jeanette Hurt
38. The Book of Good Things, Nina Taylor
39. Thanks to CF, Allison Howell
40. The Journal, Audrey Smith McLaughlin
41. Celebrate the Small Stuff, Linda Jackson
42. From Misery to Meaning, Rita Bosel
43. What’s the Worst that Can Happen? Lynn Cahoon
44. 86,400 Seconds, Diane Stark
45. Entering the Thankful Zone, Jeannie Lancaster
46. Charmed, Tamara C. Roberts
~The Power of Giving~
47. Finish Lines, Carol S. Rothchild
48. Happy Cancer-versary, Sharri Bockheim Steen
49. Staff Lunch, Pamela Gilsenan
50. While I Wait, Lola Di Giulio De Maci
51. What Is the Higher Response? Mark Rickerby
52. Baskets Full of Hope, Connie K. Pombo
53. The Strength of Vulnerability, Mary Anne Molcan
54. Jet’s Gift, Gail MacMillan
55. Looking Out a Window, Jane McBride Choate
56. Unity in Goodbye, Jean Ferratier
~The Power of Dreaming~
57. Living Our Dreams, Sarah C. Hummell
58. I Have It, Kerri A. Davidson
59. Pinstripe Dreams, Kimberly A. Porrazzo
60. Open Your Books, Liz Graf
61. Living the Dream, Ange Shepard
62. There’s No Ceiling On Dreams, Sioux Roslawski
63. Lessons in Line, Pamela Gilsenan
64. The Tunnel, Aaron Stafford
~The Power of Challenging Yourself~
65. Oh Chute, Nancy Lombard Burall
66. We Talked Good, Gunter David
67. The Roller Coaster, Rebecca Waters
68. In the Cards, Tom Krause
69. Captain Courageous, Carol E. Ayer
70. How I Got My Wings, Allyssa Bross
71. Finding Myself on Route 50, John M. Scanlan
72. They Said I Couldn’t . . . But I Did, Teresa Ambord
~The Power of Self-Improvement~
73. Saved from Myself, Jay Berman
74. Maintenance Required, Tsgoyna Tanzman
75. The Day I Took Control, Monica A. Andermann
76. Who Wants Ice Cream? Mary Jo Marcellus Wyse
77. How to Do Fine, Christopher Allen
78. The End of Excuses, Janey Womeldorf
79. Sock Puppets, Randi Sue Huchingson
80. Starting Fresh, Pat Wahler
81. Focusing on What We Have, Lisa Hutchison
~The Power of Watching Others~
82. Just a Kid, Carl Van Landschoot
83. We Are Survivors, Cindy Charlton
84. Two Strong Feet, Monica A. Andermann
85. The Wounded Healer, Mary Varga
86. Moving Forward in Reverse, Scott Martin
87. Lightning Up My Life, Dale Mary Grenfell
88. Mr. Musau, Nafisa Rayani
89. What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger, Miranda Johnson
90. Voice of Reason, Michael Jordan Segal
91. Dark Victory, Amy Gray Light
~The Power of Changing Your Thoughts~
92. The Book Shelf, H.J. Eggers
93. Insomnia, Susan Kimmel Wright
94. Fighting Cancer with Attitude, Florence Strang
95. No More Bad Days, Alice Marks
96. Adventure and Attitude Go Hand in Hand, Julie Lavender
97. Yet a Word May Change Your Life . . ., JC Sullivan
98. Making Peace, Jennifer Lang
99. A for Attitude, Linda O’Connell
100. A Different Point of View, Audrey Clearwater
101. The Excited Mark, Sandy Stevener
Meet Our Contributors
Meet Our Authors
Thank You
About Chicken Soup for the Soul
The Power of Liking Yourself
Brick by Brick
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.
~Douglas Adams
I’m a bona fide late bloomer. It took thirty-eight years and a nervous breakdown for me to find my purpose.
For most people, being hospitalized with a nervous breakdown might be an extreme way to figure out the Meaning of Life, but we creative types tend to write in the margins and paint outside the lines. What I tell my kids about my Mom Interrupted period is: “It was the worst time of my life but it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
How, you might ask, could you think that being placed in the lockup ward of a psychiatric institution after overdosing on prescription anxiety medication be the best thing that ever happened to you? Isn’t that supposed to be the phrase reserved for more positive experiences like meeting the love of your life, becoming a parent, or winning the Nobel Prize for Literature?
All of those things are certainly among the best things that have ever happened to me (well, except for winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, because I haven’t done that . . . yet) and I am grateful for them every day. But the nadir I experienced at the age of thirty-eight turned out to be the experience from whence so many other blessings have flowed.
Why? Because all of the carefully constructed walls I’d built around myself collapsed overnight, and I was left as exposed and vulnerable as a turtle without a shell. There was nowhere to left to hide, no room for Denial to make itself at home. It was just my unprotected turtle self in a place that I never want to be again as long as I live.
When you’re used to putting up a brave front, to being the girl who copes and achieves and gets things done no matter what (even if “coping” in
volves depression, bulimia and other self-destructive behaviors) it’s hard to admit to anyone that you need help — even yourself. Even in the hospital, I was desperately attempting to don the coping mask so I could get out. I was a mother and I wasn’t doing my job being locked up in a hospital. Fortunately, although I didn’t see it that way at the time, a doctor saw through it and kept me there.
Thus I was forced to confront the black hole I felt inside — to recognize that I was so intent on living my life to please everyone else that I didn’t remember who I was. To identify the emotions I’d worked so hard and used so many desperate measures not to feel.
Journaling was part of the program. Writing down my thoughts and feelings was the key to more than the therapeutic process. It opened the door to a distant memory — that once, I wanted to be a writer. I had been told that it was impractical, that I’d “never make a living as an English major,” that I should major in something with a better chance of providing a lucrative job. I had ended up with an MBA in finance and fitted my round self into a square hole — good at my job, thanks to being an overachiever, but always feeling like a fraud.
I didn’t believe in myself enough to fight for what I believed was right back then.
Yet where had being a “good girl” and meeting everyone else’s expectations gotten me? Locked up in a psych ward, that’s where.
Shortly afterwards, in an intensive outpatient program, I was in a mixed age group. For one therapeutic exercise, I had to draw a timeline of my life on a chalkboard, and explain the major events (good, bad and traumatic) to the group. It seemed to take forever because there were many events. I was worrying that the rest of the group was going to get bored before I finished. But then, even before I got to the present, one of the younger group members spoke up. “Wow,” she said. “You’ve really been through a lot. You’re so strong. I wouldn’t have survived half the stuff you’ve been through.”
I started to make the usual self-deprecating remark, but then I looked up at the timeline and I realized for the first time that I had been through a lot. Crazy as it sounds, until she pointed it out, I’d been so busy coping and more, striving to achieve and excel, that I’d never once stopped to acknowledge all the hurdles I’d overcome to get where I was. Okay, where I was at that point was in a psychiatric hospital, but I was still alive, and at that moment I started the process of changing my internal cue cards, replacing weak with strong, defective with creative.
Slowly, painfully, brick by brick, I had to put myself back together. In the process I examined each brick and tested it. Was it healthy for me? Was it a material I’d chosen for my own wall or did it really belong to someone else?
Doing that created a stronger foundation for the woman I am today. It gave me the courage to pursue my teenage dream of being a writer, and doing the timeline made me realize that I have a wealth of stories to tell. As I often joke, “God gave me a gift, the ability to express myself in writing. Then he gave me a lot of material.”
Every time I receive a letter from a reader whose life has been touched by one of my books, I’m grateful that I was able to find purpose during the most painful time of my life.
~Sarah Darer Littman
The Little Voice
Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world.
~Buddha
I’m lying on the massage table when David, my massage therapist, hits a tender spot along the top of my shoulder. I groan. He digs a little deeper. I groan a little louder. When he moves higher and hits the mother lode of pain, I yelp.
“A tad tender?” he asks. “Do you want me to back off a bit?”
“Yes,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
David works on the area more gently and my groans become softer. “You’re really tense this week,” he says, as his fingers try to unravel the knot of tight muscles that have formed from my neck to my shoulder. “I haven’t seen you this bad in months. What’s up?”
“April,” I say. “Just April. Shakespeare was right when he said it was the cruelest month.”
“How can it be cruel?” David asked. “Spring is here. Tulips are everywhere. Trees are in bud.”
“Taxes,” I mutter.
“Well, there’s that. But you still have time to get them done.”
“They’re already in. I did them early this year. I’m actually getting a nice refund.”
“So you should be happy and relaxed, not tied up in knots.”
I grunt as another one of those knots makes its presence felt. “And lessons. By April, I hate all my teaching material and have to spend hours developing new stuff.”
David digs a little deeper into the knot and into me. “Can you reuse the new material next year?”
“Yes, and some of it is really good. I’ve changed my teaching style and it shows in the material. I’m building in a lot more review and the students are doing better.”
David’s hands continue their probing and pushing. “That’s a good thing, right?”
I grunt, less from the pain and more because we’re getting to the real reason I hate April. Failure. Disappointment. Regrets.
“Come on, Harriet. You’re holding back and I can feel it in your body. Work with me on this.”
I sigh. “Okay, since you seem as determined to massage my mind as my body today. I hate April because it’s my birthday. Because I turn a year older and there’s this voice that keeps telling me I haven’t accomplished anything this year. That I haven’t lost those twenty pounds. That I haven’t finished the book I started six years ago. That I haven’t sent out at least one query a week.”
David’s hands stop. “What voice? Who’s saying that to you? I can’t believe you’re letting someone push you around like that.”
I open my mouth to say he’s right, that I wouldn’t take that crap from someone. Then I realize that I’ve been doing just that — only the someone pushing me around is me. That voice in my head is mine. I’ve taken all my fears, insecurities and disappointments and literally given them a voice. And then I’ve used it against myself.
“It’s me,” I say quietly, as much to myself as to him. “It’s me,” I say a little louder. And then a third time even louder.
David’s hands resume their kneading of knotted muscles. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
I’d lived with the voice for so long that it had never occurred to me that I could do something about it. I begin to understand that I have options. I decide to exercise one of those options. “I’m going to tell that little voice to shut up.” I pause, thinking of how powerful that voice is. Maybe there’s a better option. I start again. “No, I’m not going to tell it to shut up. I’m going to tell it to speak louder. Only I’m going to teach it to say positive things. To remind me of what I have done, not what I haven’t.”
I think about the students who like me, the other teachers who ask my advice, the writers in my online writing group who value my critiques, and the editors at magazines, newspapers and anthologies who have published my articles and stories. Suddenly I realize that my little voice will have lots of nice things to say to me — if I let it.
As for the twenty pounds and the unfinished book and all the other things that I’ve meant to do but somehow never did? I already know that beating myself up about my failures doesn’t work. Who knows what the effect of being positive to myself will be? And what better time to test it out than in April.
For the first time this month I relax and David’s fingers go from being tools of torture to being instruments of pleasure. And a little voice says, “Good for you. See what happens when you believe in yourself?”
Now that’s a voice I could listen to for hours.
~Harriet Cooper
Battling My Inner Bully
It’s hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your head.
~Sally Kempton
When I was in grade school, a boy named Scott called me Fat Lips every c
hance he got. He’d sit behind me on the school bus, heckling me, kicking my seat, or flicking my head with a pencil, all the time laughing in a way that made me shrink into a corner of the seat.
But much worse than Scott, and all the other childhood bullies I encountered, was the internal bully that followed me through life hissing insults in my ear. He said things like, “You should have done better,” or “That was a stupid thing to say,” or “Good people don’t do that.”
I used to believe his abuse. Because of that, I grew up lacking self-confidence, even though outwardly I was a high achiever. I excelled in school, earned a full scholarship to college, graduated magna cum laude, and became a world-traveling teacher. But I couldn’t fully enjoy those accomplishments, because always, underneath, was the feeling that I wasn’t good enough.
When I became a mom, my feelings of anxiety about my many failings led me to therapy. But it didn’t help much. One day, after describing one of my bully’s particularly cruel accusations, my therapist gave me a sorrowful look. “Oh, Sara,” she said in a pained voice. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”
I could have said, “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me that.” But instead, I felt ashamed and heard another whisper from my bully: “You’re so messed up, you’ve even got your counselor stumped!”
Around the same time, I learned that I had an autoimmune disease called Sjögren’s syndrome. The diagnosis explained years of aches and pains, a troubled pregnancy, and the loss of my sense of smell. In my quest for a more holistic treatment of my symptoms, which now included dry eyes and a dry mouth, I visited a functional chiropractor. Besides recommending certain dietary changes and supplements, he suggested that I see a therapist. Surprised, I asked him why.
“Because I find that how people think greatly affects their physical health,” he said.
So I went looking for a counselor again. This time I found a cozy, wise, spiritual woman named Vicki. Together we began exploring some of my mixed-up thinking. I remember our first session clearly, when I told her about the Sjögren’s syndrome.
“It’s an autoimmune disease,” I said. “My white blood cells attack my own moisture-producing glands.”