Author: TheDon McCoy

His apartment must have been quite bare. It was probably only a small room with a kitchenette and a bathroom. I can only imagine what his last few weeks were like. My older half-brother was the one that received the call that our father had passed away in a small town in California. I found out that his last job was as a truck driver. He was single and alone, a solitary man with sad memories and questions about how it ended up so wrong.

All of my father’s belongings ended up as the contents of a shoe box. A lighter, some faded family photos and other mementos of a life traveled hard and long. Franklyn McCoy rolled into Norwalk Connecticut on a Triumph motorcycle when he noticed the petite girl in the denim jeans. Josephine, my mom, fell for the bad boy with the crisp white t-shirt with the Lucky Strike pack rolled up in one sleeve.

I think about him from time to time. I wish I had more than the first nine years of my life after which they divorced and he rode off for another adventure and dream of finding happiness. But that proved too elusive for him. I wish I could talk with him as an adult and understand what happened and who he truly was as a man. As a kid, I remember Hamm radios, his cherished Triumph, a variety of really cool cars and his equally cool friends.

My heart breaks when I hear people talk fondly about their dads and how they fostered their growth. My uncles definitely filled that void in my life and I learned a lot of valuable lessons from them. But, that emptiness will haunt me from the last moment I saw him. I was sitting on the front porch of the apartment we lived in with my brothers and sister. We were enjoying the summer sun and waiting for him to visit.

A Bonneville convertible rolled up to the front. The top was up, which was unlike my dad on this beautiful day. The car idled a deep rumble as he sat in the middle of the road. I looked at my brothers and sister and we wondered why he wasn’t parking. After a minute I got up and walked toward his car. Just as I stepped off the curve, he drove off. I still remember the expression on his face., the tears in his eyes as he turned his head away and drove off.

I sometimes understand his sorrow and how it can be a deep poorly lighted pit from which to attempt to climb out of. Often we need a helping hand to get out. I wonder if he ever had that? Sometimes I want to travel to that town in California and try to find that building and his apartment. Maybe I’m just trying to bring an understanding and closure to the last 51 years. Maybe sharing this story will help.

Love to all the dads out there.

Another bright star was extinguished.

This is so very hard to understand. I can speak of psychological trauma and pain. I can speak about theory and psychiatric reasoning, but I am always at a loss for that moment when a person chooses that ending their life is a solution to escaping what they are experiencing in the moment.

Painting a picture of that moment, the room is darkened. The shades are drawn tight to the sills. The bed is a mess, with sheets and blankets tossed around the bed and floor. A figure is curled up in the corner against a wall. There are no more tears. There is no one else in the room. No one noticed it getting to this point. No one noticed that behind the smiles and joking was a sadness and emptiness consuming him or her.

I wonder if Chester had tried to talk with someone. I wonder if he felt too alone and hurting to open up. I wonder if he felt he had become a burden to others and chose to isolate himself from his friends and family. I once had a friend. He had experienced major trauma in his life and had recovered from it. When I had met him he had a good group of friends and a happiness and light to his soul that was very enjoyable to be around.

Slowly, as some minor losses built up in his life, my friend began to lose that light. We had spent many hours talking stereo systems and music (a shared hobby). Our kids played together. Then slowly we drifted apart. I would go to his house and he would say he didn’t feel well. Sometimes he would invite me in and we would listen to music and talk. Sometimes we just listened to music and not talk. It was that one day when I knocked on his door. He called out from the closed door, “Who is it?” I announced myself. “Hey Donnie, not feeling well, sorry man.” The door never opened.

Weeks later my daughter came over looking very sad. She told me that my friend had taken his own life. I was devastated. The first thought I had was what could I have done differently? I could feel his sadness and when I brought it up in our conversations he dismissed it, saying he was just a bit under the weather and needed to rest. I knew it was more, but, yeah, BUT!

Today with this sad news, I think about my friend again. Chester’s unfortunate decision came at a moment of complete and utter aloneness and sorrow. I cannot be afraid of having those deep conversations. I cannot shrink away from friends when they are not fun to be around. I cannot give up on them when those dark moments are looming.

This is a post from January of this year. I have chosen to repeat it because I have been witnessing more Anxiety being voiced from friends and colleagues (and the general public). It is a quick temporary fix that helps reframe ourselves in the moment.

Please pass it on 🙂

Breathing is the process that moves air in and out of the lungs, to allow the diffusion of oxygen and carbon dioxide to and from the external environment into and out of the blood. __Wikipedia (2017)

Hello Friends,

Are you anxious or overwhelmed?

Is your heart beating faster than normal? Is it difficult to collect your thoughts?

Then, stop what you are doing. Check in with what you are thinking, and how you are feeling. Assess your breathing, your thoughts and how you are basically feeling.

Find a quiet place to sit for a few minutes.

Sit comfortably and place your hands behind your head, interlacing your fingers (sit back like a Boss!)

Close your eyes and take a slow deep breath in through your nose.

Exhale slowly through your mouth.

Repeat this twice more.

Now, place your hands in your lap and become mindful of your breath, how it feels with the air going in and coming out. Reassess your thoughts and how you feel. You should be feeling a bit clearer and calmer. Continue to breathe for a few more minutes. Remember to breathe slowly and evenly. No need to take heavy deep breaths!

Practicing Mindful Breathing will create space between your thoughts, emotions and how you react to your environment.

Learn to broaden your perspective and strengthen your peace and calm by practicing Mindful Breathing.

The day was sunny and a little warm as I got out of my car. I had been out to assess an older man at a nursing facility in Wilton CT. The assessment went well and the drive home was pleasant. I set up my laptop to complete the assessment form when I heard yelling outside my house. Walking outside to find the source of the commotion, I witnessed car stopped diagonally blocking my street (a dead end) and a tall teen male grabbing and hitting a smaller older woman. A younger teen girl was trying to stop the boy from inflicting any further damage.

Several people had stopped and appeared to be calling the police. Two men tried to talk to the teen boy to no avail. I ran up and stood between the boy and the woman. I learned that she was his mother and the young girl was his sister. The boy’s mom said he has Autism. I quickly realized that he was completely overwhelmed and could not regulate his emotions. Police quickly appeared. Six police SUVs rolled up with a total of eight officers.

At the time I was moving the boy away from his mom when one of the officers asked me to step aside as I was not a family member. One of the officers asked the boy’s mother if their presence would possibly escalate the situation. She stated that it might. I explained I was a licensed counselor and was able to handle this situation. The officer noticed that the boy was responding to my interventions and said that I could continue. Two other officers stood near just in case the boy escalated. I asked the boy if he wanted to sit on the grass with me and began walking to the curb. He followed as his mom talked with the police officers.

The boy kept on repeating two questions. “Do police cars have propellers?” and “Do police cars fly?” At this time he was kneeling on the grass next to me as I rubbed his back and shoulder, asking him to calm himself. He slowly became calmer and then sat on the grass with me. I asked his mother what the reference was to his questions. She stated he had recently watched the movie Cars. A few minutes later the boy asked to go home and began to pound the grass with his fists when he didn’t get an immediate answer. One officer stepped closer. I knelt closer to the boy and offered that if he calmed down a bit more, he could go home. He looked at me and said, “I’m sorry for hitting my mom.”

He sat on the grass with me still repeating the questions. I suggested that he also tell her he was sorry for hitting her. The boy continued to ask about flying police cars. He appeared to be calming down well enough to leave with his mother. She stated to the police that she was comfortable with transporting him home. The officers thanked me for stepping in and calming the boy down.  I walked the boy to his mom. “I’m sorry for hitting you mom,” he said as he got into the back seat with his sister.

The police took my information and thanked me for my support in the situation.  I was entirely impressed with the Fairfield CT police and how they chose to handle the situation. Their understanding and professionalism were great to witness. I gave my information to the boy’s mom before she left. The next day she called to thank me again for my help and said that her son did well on their ride home and was stable.  For me, it was a good day.

I am unsure as to how to start. I’ve been writing blogs for more than a year now and when I first sit down to write either I have a clear picture of the topic or, as in today, I have a need to write, but no topic. Stephen King once said that he writes for a minimum of 3 hours a day, every day, whether he has anything to write or not. I am sitting here with the NOT.

Thinking back to my week so far, I find that in my work I have met some very interesting people. In Psychiatry, one does meet quite interesting people. Some had sad stories. Like the 69-year-old woman with Schizophrenia that stated the same sentence over and over again to any question I asked. The blankness behind her eyes was so terribly heartbreaking. Or, the woman in the hospital that was so very suspicious of my presence that even her nurse couldn’t convince her that I wasn’t a devious spy for the government out to rob her of her identity.

Most of us tend to take our sanity for granted. We go about our day to day lives with little thought on how fragile sanity really is. Some are born with a mental illness that they live with. Some develop an illness due to environmental causes or from severe trauma and tragedy. Many of us experience what is called situational depression. This is where an event in a person’s life has caused incredible sadness and sorrow. Many are able to move past the sadness with the help of friends, family, and professionals like me. Others sometimes do not see their sadness rooting deep inside them and slowly become negative.

There are others that meet with sorrow and tragedy and can overcome the odds and become amazing people. I was watching reruns of Season 2 of MasterChef. The winner of the competition was an Asian woman. Attempting to win this competition is, in itself, a very trying and difficult endeavor. This woman standing before all the other contestants, their families and the judges, is blind!

I watched her journey often with tears in my eyes. I listened to her story. How she had developed an immune disorder that over the course of three years robbed her of her eyesight. That’s the true point of her tragedy. She was able to see before this illness. She was able to earn degrees in creative writing. Watching her use a chef’s knife, and watching her create dishes worthy of the title was awe inspiring.

What I have found working in this field is that when someone faces tragedy, there are two distinct roads they can choose to take. One is an abrupt dead end filled with sadness and self-loathing. The other is a long, windy and often bumpy uphill trail that is filled with trials and little rewards. And if you choose to travel on that road, you may find like Christine did (yes, that is her name) a greatness both personal and otherwise that inspires others and most importantly realizes the reason for choosing the long and bumpy trail.

Here is an important key to success: none of the people that found peace and happiness after the tragedy took the journey alone. They were able to ask for help and importantly, they were able to accept help and guidance from others. When we choose to make the journey alone, we tire easily and become disillusioned to what may lie ahead. The guidance and help from others hold our hearts and provides an immediate purpose for continuing on.

Continue your journey, love and help your supporters, and keep to the long trail. This is where the journey is as important as the destination.

This story forms the basis of the training I created titled: Managing Agitated or Violent Persons Utilizing Mindfulness. This story speaks of how to work with awareness, compassion, and understanding of others when they are overwhelmed with grief, anger, psychiatric illness or other intense factors that cause loss of control and unsafe behaviors.

Aikido In Action

Doing combat with the essence of love

By Terry Dobson

THE TRAIN CLANKED and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives with their kids, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.

Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.

I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”

I listened to his words, I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

This is it! I said to myself as I got to my feet. People are in danger. If I don’t do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt.

Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” he roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!”

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so l pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss. “All right!” he hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.

A split second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something and he had suddenly stumbled upon it. “Hey!”

I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand lightly.

The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the laborer. “What’cha been drinkin’?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I expected though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.

As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said, “I love persimmons too…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes,” said the old man, smiling. “And I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”

“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well- scrubbed youthful innocence, my “make this world safe for democracy” righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said. “That is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”

I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.

As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.

One of the articles in The Foundations Of Peace (IC#4)
Originally published in Autumn 1983 on page 35
Copyright (c)1983, 1997 by Context Institute

I recently caught up with a friend, by phone, although we were in the same building. My work in assessing patients for continued care in hospitals and nursing facilities brought me to a previous place of employment, a local hospital. I called the Social Worker to let her know I would be arriving the next day to complete the assessment. She is a friend I had met while working there and she is still employed there!

After talking with her and both of us saying we should get together soon to talk about what has happened since we last met up, I began thinking about all the people I have met and become friends with in my past. The number is too great to think of. There have been so many. But, how many have I actually kept in touch with?

Back before the days of Facebook, and WeChat (Chinese Facebook) and other social media sites, we pretty much lost contact with friends we had met and only regained contact when, like in my example, meet up for some unforeseen reason. Even with the social media sites, how many friends out of the hundreds or for some, thousands of people do we actually make physical contact with?

Many times I have had the conversation: “Yeah, we should meet up again soon!” only to dismiss the thought the moment the chance meeting or call ends. But this is a mistake and a missed opportunity. I truly believe that we meet people for a reason. Sometimes we are cognizant of the reason, and sometimes we need to be mindful of the why. There may be greater plans at play that we too easily dismiss.

Today, I will choose to ask my friend to lunch next week. Actually, there are two friends I need to meet up with, even if it is for the simple reason of catching up and reestablishing the connection of that friendship. It is important. We live for connection. Without a connection to other important people (aka: friends), our lives are dull, shallow and quite depressing.

Who will you reach out to today?

She was lying in a fetal position on her bed. The TV was on but the sound was turned down. Her blankets were pulled up to her neck and she was asleep. The room was dark with a small amount of light peeking through the drawn curtains.  The sounds of nurses and staff in the halls were muted behind the closed door.

I was there to assess this fragile woman for placement into another facility. See, she is dying. She is only 43 years old. I woke her with a gentle hello and explained who I was and why I was there to meet with her. She opened her eyes and lifted her head a few inches off her pillow. I could see in the dim light that her skin was a sickening pale yellow. She whispered hello. That was about all I could elicit from her. She closed her eyes and fell back to sleep.

I stood in the dark room for a few minutes more before sitting down and feeling the heaviness of her situation. I read in her chart that she has a family but none had come to visit her. She was alienated from them. I could only guess what may have happened to cause her to be alone for the last few days of her life. I sat watching her sleep. Besides, the nursing staff of the facility, I was her only visitor. I didn’t want to leave. As I sat, I thought, it doesn’t matter how much money you have in the bank. It doesn’t matter what kind of car you drive or how big your house is. What matters, is a connection and the love and memories we make in our often too short time here.

Don McCoy

I awoke from a dream this morning. It was a normal sort of dream, as many of my dreams are fantastic and sometimes prophetic. In the dream, I was at my local gas station talking with the owner’s son. He had done a lot of work on my cars in the past. Yeah, that kind of gas station! He was showing me pictures of his trip to Katahdin Mountain in Maine. I loved the pic he showed me of him on Knife’s Edge, a narrow pass at the top of the mountain that had severe drops on each side. I thought to myself, you never did that, yet. At 60 years old I never climbed Katahdin or walked across the Knife’s Edge even though I had lived in Maine for 20 years.

I looked at this young man’s face, so full of happiness and fond memories of his trip. He couldn’t keep from smiling as he talked. I said to him: “Here’s some advice from an old man (well almost old man). Find every adventure. Keep your eyes, ears and most importantly, your heart open to the possibilities life gives you each and every day. Fill your life with as many fabulous memories as you can. Because when you get older and look back at your life, it will feel full and happy. Sure, you will have regrets. That is part of growing and living. But the greatest regrets I have today is what I didn’t do.”

A person once said to me there is a moment each day in our lives that we have the possibility to change the world. I pondered that statement for many years. When I began to learn and practice Mindfulness, I began to understand that statement. Here’s an example: you see someone (on the street, in a store, etc.) and they look down, making eye contact, you offer a smile and a hello. Maybe as a reflex, or maybe not, they smile back and say hello. It was a simple exchange. But within that exchange carries an enormous possibility for change.

As a result of that smile, that person feels just a little bit better. They begin to spread that bit of happiness to others. Hopefully in return that happiness spreads and makes even a small and insignificant change in others. It becomes like a snowball effect. When we add conversation into the equation the possibilities expand. This is how new friendships are created. This is precisely how we stay connected to the original World Wide Web, pure conversation with others. This is the journey.

I finished my conversation with the young man: “it is about the journey, not the destination. If you keep your eye on your idea of where you want to go, you will miss everything along the way. And at times, like walking on a tree-lined dirt road, the path gets washed away, or you come up against a boulder that momentarily diverts your travel, the goal seems to get further away, or it changes completely.

“All those experiences and adventures you had walked past on your road to the goal would have taken you closer to the true goal in your life. And along the way, your life would have been more rich and happy as a result. So, Live, enjoy your life’s adventures, don’t be afraid to feel and make mistakes. It is how we grow and how we create lasting happiness and memory”

Time for a bit of self-disclosure; I was diagnosed with an Immune Deficiency Disorder. For the past 10+ years, I have experienced severe weakness and pain lasting up to several months at a time. It has been a trial for me to continue to practice my meditation and mindfulness during these moments. I choose to not take pain medication as they wreak havoc on my body. Although the immediate gratification of diminished pain would be welcome, the long-term effects are not worth it.

I practice at being mindful of my body sensations and the intensity and location of the pain. I try various exercises like Yoga and Tai Chi to help alleviate the pain. These do help a great deal.  I find that western medicine attempts to treat separate symptoms and doesn’t look at the body as a whole. I had initially been diagnosed with a severely low white cell count and. I was checked for cancer, aids, Lyme disease, and other relatable diseases and disorders. None proved positive other than a compromised immune system.

In an attempt to try to heal myself I have changed my diet, eliminating dairy and limiting the amount of gluten products I consume. This has made a definite change, but I still needed more. A friend of my wife had suggested I try a vitamin and mineral supplement that she and her husband rely on for health a well-being. We purchased a month supply of the supplements from a company called Jeunesse. (jeunesseglobal.com) By the end of the month, I was feeling amazing! I am able to have much more energy and the best benefit of all is the loss of the mental fog and edginess I was experiencing.

It is my sincere hope that anyone experiencing fatigue, pain and mental fogginess that this supplement system can help!

Below is a great article on Mindfulness and Pain from the University of Minnesota with a great video from the leader in Mindfulness; Jon Kabat-Zinn. Enjoy!

https://www.takingcharge.csh.umn.edu/mindfulness-physical-pain