Being diagnosed with depression, anxiety, or bipolar is both a gift and a curse. The obvious downside to having any one of these 'disorders' is the obvious: The highs and the lows. The nerves. The sensitivity. The inability to cope. The inability to breathe. The inability to function. I'm not enlightening the medical field with these words because all of these 'symptoms' can be found on WebMd. The side effects that you cannot find on WebMd are the ones that cause you to be unique from the rest of the world. Nobody's giving seminars right now on how to embrace your super-sensitive side. I don't see Tony Robbins catering to manic depressants to show them how their powers can be used for good, and not evil (well, at least not yet). But there are good things that can come out of these 'stigmatas'. The universe gives us these uncanny gifts, yet most of us are scared to tap into them. I've discovered several personality traits and quirks that I have that I know make me exceptionally unique. My personal favorite: I call it 'The Hero Factor'.
We've all heard or read accounts where a random person jumps into a river and saves a drowning child, or how someone was pulled from the wreckage of a car, or maybe how they even pulled another individual from a burning building. In order to complete one of these random acts of kindness, you must have a certain recklessness about you. You have to be able to abandon care of self, and think of nothing but another individual and their well-being. Easy, right? Shiiiiiiit.
Not everybody can do that. Not everybody knows how they're going to react when put in this situation, because, let's face it, not all of us have been there. Many people are saying, "OH yeah, I'd definitely try to save this person", or "....i'd do that to be the hero", but I don't think people know exactly what is involved with this process. I do. I have 'The Hero Factor'.
I can't determine if we're born with it or not. My research on that data is still inconclusive. However, I do know that you must have certain characteristics in order to have 'The Hero Factor'.
For starters, you must have reckless abandon. You have to be able to stop caring about your own well-being, if only for a few seconds. I think I got that one covered. Anybody who has attempted suicide twice clearly has the ability to put aside his own safety concerns. Reckless abandonment? Check.
Secondly, you have to 'Care' enough. If you're self-centered, insensitive, or shallow you probably don't qualify. Sorry. We have lovely parting gifts for you once you get to Hell. I'm kidding. Seriously....that was a joke. Nobody's going to hell. Relax.
But you do have to Care. You must feel empathy and compassion (and not just at the moment that the heroic act presents itself). I'll give you an example of my empathy, and how I've tried to change the world (one person at a time).
I was riding Marta (Atlanta's rail system), and I was sitting next to a middle-aged black woman. She wore a plain outfit with her hair pulled back and she had a bad case of acne. She wore glasses, she had large ears, and I was almost certain she had not won any beauty contests growing up as a child. I'm not judging her. I'm just stating logical facts.
She was turned slightly away from me so that she could pretend that she was actually paying attention to the world just outside of the glass window. Her face lacked expression and her shoulders sagged, causing her purse strap to fall down by her elbow. I was unable to completely see her face, but I could make out enough of her expression to know that, emotionally, she was hurting. She didn't weep, or make any sobbing noises, but I could almost hear a soft whimper in her breath. Although her gaze remained emotionless, she had a look on her face as if she was getting ready to speak, yet she would never utter a word.
As the train began to slow and my stop quickly approached, I realizing I was getting ready to speak to this woman. At the ripe age of 27, I had never done anything like this before and my heart rate accelerated as the train began to slow. I was getting ready to speak to a stranger and I had no idea what words my mouth would form, I just knew I had to say something. I turned to the woman, put my hand softly on her arm and said, "You have an inner beauty inside of you that not even you are aware of."
I stood up and began to slowly back towards the door when I saw one single tear roll down her cheek. I turned and quickly stepped out of the closing doors, never again to see her face.
I don't know why I said what I did that day, but I know if I was 'normal', I probably would have never even thought to pay attention to what she was doing. Because of my anxiety, I am always extra cognizant of my surroundings. The smallest encounter could have triggered an anxiety attack. If I saw someone get their feelings hurt, or somebody that was sad, or crying, I always longed to reach out and help them. I wanted to soothe their pain. I wanted to fix what was wrong with them. It made me feel better. Focusing on someone else's pain, allowed me to forget about mine. Even if only for a moment. That is why all my girlfriends were fucked up head cases (no offense Sheena), but it's true. It allowed me to focus on them, instead of me. I don't know what ever became of that woman on the train, but I'd like to think that I did some good in her life. Even if only for a moment.
Going through life with a heightened sensitivity level isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world. As you can see, my powers could be used for good. Years later, as my anxiety, depression, and addiction to Xanax worsened, so did my level of self-esteem. Unfortunately, I used my knowledge of others' emotional state to my advantage. At that point in my life I was numb. There's no such thing as a con artist with a conscience.
My greatest act of heroism was performed while I was living in Trenton, New Jersey. It was about two a.m. and I was sitting on my front stoop, smoking a blunt (cigar filled with marijuana), and talking to a neighborhood girl (that I would later marry). It was the middle of summer and my front door was slightly ajar and I could hear my roommate and a few friends playing Madden, on PlayStation, in the Living Room.
I heard a scream. I looked across the street and I saw flames shooting out of the third floor of the rowhouse, that was directly across from us. I turned and sprinted inside the Living Room and yelled, "Call 9-1-1, the neighbors house is on fire!" I then turned and immediately sprinted down our front hallway and jumped off our front stoop, skipping all four steps. I sprinted past my future wife, across the street, and with one last leap, I was inside the front door of the burning home.
Before I go any further, let me give you a little background of where I lived in Trenton, New Jersey. I was one block off Stuyvesant Avenue. For any of you that have ever lived in the inner city or ghetto, you know that every 'hood' has a Stuyvesant Avenue. So if your home residence was only a stones throw away from Stuyvesant avenue, well that pretty much meant you lived in the hood too. The actual street I lived on was East Hanover. All of the houses were rowhomes, and if you were lucky, your tiny little backyard didn't have any crackheads living in it. I wasn't that fortunate (to make matters worse, my backyard crackhead had the same name as me.) I had only lived there for a few weeks, and I was the only 'white boy' on the street. The rest of the community was made up of either latino or black people.
As I burst through the front door, I was greeted by 3 spanish women in their pajamas running down the stairs, with children in tow. I had no idea how many people were living in the house, but just based on my observation the last few weeks, i knew it was alot. Doors started opening and people were pouring out of every room. Children were running past me with looks of fear and confusion on their faces. I ascended the steps to the second floor and I could feel the heat pouring down the flight of steps leading to the third floor. There were several latino men running frantically from door to door and, although I could barely understand a word that passed their lips, i began to hear a common chant, "Maria." It began as a faint yelling outside of the house, but now the two spanish men on the 2nd floor began to yell the girls' name, "Maria! Maria!". Feeling helpless, I joined in the chant yelling the girls name, as I closed and opened doors, hoping to find the lost tot.
As I stopped and came face to face with the eldest of the two men still performing the room to room search, the only word I could utter was, "Donde? Donde?" Where? Where was Maria?
"No Se. No Se" was his only response. I knew he didn't know where the girl was but my limited spanish vocabulary didn't grant me the luxury of proper questioning.
"Mira, Mira" he yelled as he pointed up the smoky staircase leading to the fiery death trap. As I ran to his side, I knew what he was about to do. I looked up at the ceiling and saw a thin film of smoke beginning to form in the second floor hallway. The staircase was illuminated orange and yellow from the billowing flames that were causing severe structural damage only a few feet above. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as to say, "Fuck it" and he quickly started up the steps. I kept my back to wall and my head down as we slowly ascended the steps and crept inside the attic door.
The heat was absolutely blinding. I kept my hand on the back of the old man in front of me because visibility was next to nothing. Blankets of smoke poured past me as we crept in the room. As I peered above, I could only make out orange transluscent waves that were rolling across the ceiling. As odd as this may sound, the fire was beautiful. Its heat and ferocity kept me hovering in a low crouch, but I coudln't help but stop to admire the orange and red artwork that flowed across the ceiling.
I kept my shirt over my eyes and mouth and could barely get out the words, "Maria" when I heard a man yelling from the bottom of the steps. The old spanish man pulled at my shirt and we both quickly made our way back down the flight of steps. I began coughing incessantly as I heard the word, "Maria" repeated several times except this time the concerned 'pitch' of their tone was gone. I could only assume Maria had been found as we made our way back to ground level.
I ran out of the front door, jumped the four front steps, and landed safely on the sidewalk. A crowd had begun to gather outside the house as I made my way back across the street to my humble abode. I heard a loud crashing noise as I turned around and saw the 3rd floor air conditioner crash a few feet from where I made my safe landing, only a few moments ago.
As I let out a few final coughs, trying to clear my lungs, I walked back to where my roommate and friends had gathered. My roommate approached me with wide eyes and mouth agape, and blurted out "What the Fuck was that, Son?"
That, my good man, was the Hero Factor.
From that day forward, I was known on my block as 'Loco Gringo'. Crazy white boy. The same people that, only days prior, would not even speak, were now waving, saying hello, and asking me how my day was. I lived on that block for almost a year, and was given nothing but the utmost love and respect from everyone on the street. I loved Hanover Street.
Please know that my words are not an attempt to coerce anyone to don a cape and mask so they can patrol the streets nightly in an attempt to thwart crime. If you're old enough to read this and you don't have 'The Hero Factor' yet, then maybe you just don't have it. It's not something that can be learned or taught, it's instinctual. But if you don't have it, then what do you have? If not 'The Hero Factor', then what is your gift(s)? If you suffer from anxiety, depression, or bipolar, then you have that something extra, somewhere. It's the balance of nature. It's the yin and the yang. You suffer in one aspect of your life, so you'll have the ability to excel in another. It's why most all extremely beautiful people are dumb as shit. It's why autistic people can count their asses off. It's just how nature works.
Stop looking at the depression or anxiety as an illness, and count it as a blessing. Start embracing it by finding out what it is that you excel at. Get more in touch with You and find out what gift(s) you have. I'm still learning mine, and I just added superhuman-writing-ability to my list. What'd you add to yours?
We've all heard or read accounts where a random person jumps into a river and saves a drowning child, or how someone was pulled from the wreckage of a car, or maybe how they even pulled another individual from a burning building. In order to complete one of these random acts of kindness, you must have a certain recklessness about you. You have to be able to abandon care of self, and think of nothing but another individual and their well-being. Easy, right? Shiiiiiiit.
Not everybody can do that. Not everybody knows how they're going to react when put in this situation, because, let's face it, not all of us have been there. Many people are saying, "OH yeah, I'd definitely try to save this person", or "....i'd do that to be the hero", but I don't think people know exactly what is involved with this process. I do. I have 'The Hero Factor'.
I can't determine if we're born with it or not. My research on that data is still inconclusive. However, I do know that you must have certain characteristics in order to have 'The Hero Factor'.
For starters, you must have reckless abandon. You have to be able to stop caring about your own well-being, if only for a few seconds. I think I got that one covered. Anybody who has attempted suicide twice clearly has the ability to put aside his own safety concerns. Reckless abandonment? Check.
Secondly, you have to 'Care' enough. If you're self-centered, insensitive, or shallow you probably don't qualify. Sorry. We have lovely parting gifts for you once you get to Hell. I'm kidding. Seriously....that was a joke. Nobody's going to hell. Relax.
But you do have to Care. You must feel empathy and compassion (and not just at the moment that the heroic act presents itself). I'll give you an example of my empathy, and how I've tried to change the world (one person at a time).
I was riding Marta (Atlanta's rail system), and I was sitting next to a middle-aged black woman. She wore a plain outfit with her hair pulled back and she had a bad case of acne. She wore glasses, she had large ears, and I was almost certain she had not won any beauty contests growing up as a child. I'm not judging her. I'm just stating logical facts.
She was turned slightly away from me so that she could pretend that she was actually paying attention to the world just outside of the glass window. Her face lacked expression and her shoulders sagged, causing her purse strap to fall down by her elbow. I was unable to completely see her face, but I could make out enough of her expression to know that, emotionally, she was hurting. She didn't weep, or make any sobbing noises, but I could almost hear a soft whimper in her breath. Although her gaze remained emotionless, she had a look on her face as if she was getting ready to speak, yet she would never utter a word.
As the train began to slow and my stop quickly approached, I realizing I was getting ready to speak to this woman. At the ripe age of 27, I had never done anything like this before and my heart rate accelerated as the train began to slow. I was getting ready to speak to a stranger and I had no idea what words my mouth would form, I just knew I had to say something. I turned to the woman, put my hand softly on her arm and said, "You have an inner beauty inside of you that not even you are aware of."
I stood up and began to slowly back towards the door when I saw one single tear roll down her cheek. I turned and quickly stepped out of the closing doors, never again to see her face.
I don't know why I said what I did that day, but I know if I was 'normal', I probably would have never even thought to pay attention to what she was doing. Because of my anxiety, I am always extra cognizant of my surroundings. The smallest encounter could have triggered an anxiety attack. If I saw someone get their feelings hurt, or somebody that was sad, or crying, I always longed to reach out and help them. I wanted to soothe their pain. I wanted to fix what was wrong with them. It made me feel better. Focusing on someone else's pain, allowed me to forget about mine. Even if only for a moment. That is why all my girlfriends were fucked up head cases (no offense Sheena), but it's true. It allowed me to focus on them, instead of me. I don't know what ever became of that woman on the train, but I'd like to think that I did some good in her life. Even if only for a moment.
Going through life with a heightened sensitivity level isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world. As you can see, my powers could be used for good. Years later, as my anxiety, depression, and addiction to Xanax worsened, so did my level of self-esteem. Unfortunately, I used my knowledge of others' emotional state to my advantage. At that point in my life I was numb. There's no such thing as a con artist with a conscience.
My greatest act of heroism was performed while I was living in Trenton, New Jersey. It was about two a.m. and I was sitting on my front stoop, smoking a blunt (cigar filled with marijuana), and talking to a neighborhood girl (that I would later marry). It was the middle of summer and my front door was slightly ajar and I could hear my roommate and a few friends playing Madden, on PlayStation, in the Living Room.
I heard a scream. I looked across the street and I saw flames shooting out of the third floor of the rowhouse, that was directly across from us. I turned and sprinted inside the Living Room and yelled, "Call 9-1-1, the neighbors house is on fire!" I then turned and immediately sprinted down our front hallway and jumped off our front stoop, skipping all four steps. I sprinted past my future wife, across the street, and with one last leap, I was inside the front door of the burning home.
Before I go any further, let me give you a little background of where I lived in Trenton, New Jersey. I was one block off Stuyvesant Avenue. For any of you that have ever lived in the inner city or ghetto, you know that every 'hood' has a Stuyvesant Avenue. So if your home residence was only a stones throw away from Stuyvesant avenue, well that pretty much meant you lived in the hood too. The actual street I lived on was East Hanover. All of the houses were rowhomes, and if you were lucky, your tiny little backyard didn't have any crackheads living in it. I wasn't that fortunate (to make matters worse, my backyard crackhead had the same name as me.) I had only lived there for a few weeks, and I was the only 'white boy' on the street. The rest of the community was made up of either latino or black people.
As I burst through the front door, I was greeted by 3 spanish women in their pajamas running down the stairs, with children in tow. I had no idea how many people were living in the house, but just based on my observation the last few weeks, i knew it was alot. Doors started opening and people were pouring out of every room. Children were running past me with looks of fear and confusion on their faces. I ascended the steps to the second floor and I could feel the heat pouring down the flight of steps leading to the third floor. There were several latino men running frantically from door to door and, although I could barely understand a word that passed their lips, i began to hear a common chant, "Maria." It began as a faint yelling outside of the house, but now the two spanish men on the 2nd floor began to yell the girls' name, "Maria! Maria!". Feeling helpless, I joined in the chant yelling the girls name, as I closed and opened doors, hoping to find the lost tot.
As I stopped and came face to face with the eldest of the two men still performing the room to room search, the only word I could utter was, "Donde? Donde?" Where? Where was Maria?
"No Se. No Se" was his only response. I knew he didn't know where the girl was but my limited spanish vocabulary didn't grant me the luxury of proper questioning.
"Mira, Mira" he yelled as he pointed up the smoky staircase leading to the fiery death trap. As I ran to his side, I knew what he was about to do. I looked up at the ceiling and saw a thin film of smoke beginning to form in the second floor hallway. The staircase was illuminated orange and yellow from the billowing flames that were causing severe structural damage only a few feet above. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as to say, "Fuck it" and he quickly started up the steps. I kept my back to wall and my head down as we slowly ascended the steps and crept inside the attic door.
The heat was absolutely blinding. I kept my hand on the back of the old man in front of me because visibility was next to nothing. Blankets of smoke poured past me as we crept in the room. As I peered above, I could only make out orange transluscent waves that were rolling across the ceiling. As odd as this may sound, the fire was beautiful. Its heat and ferocity kept me hovering in a low crouch, but I coudln't help but stop to admire the orange and red artwork that flowed across the ceiling.
I kept my shirt over my eyes and mouth and could barely get out the words, "Maria" when I heard a man yelling from the bottom of the steps. The old spanish man pulled at my shirt and we both quickly made our way back down the flight of steps. I began coughing incessantly as I heard the word, "Maria" repeated several times except this time the concerned 'pitch' of their tone was gone. I could only assume Maria had been found as we made our way back to ground level.
I ran out of the front door, jumped the four front steps, and landed safely on the sidewalk. A crowd had begun to gather outside the house as I made my way back across the street to my humble abode. I heard a loud crashing noise as I turned around and saw the 3rd floor air conditioner crash a few feet from where I made my safe landing, only a few moments ago.
As I let out a few final coughs, trying to clear my lungs, I walked back to where my roommate and friends had gathered. My roommate approached me with wide eyes and mouth agape, and blurted out "What the Fuck was that, Son?"
That, my good man, was the Hero Factor.
From that day forward, I was known on my block as 'Loco Gringo'. Crazy white boy. The same people that, only days prior, would not even speak, were now waving, saying hello, and asking me how my day was. I lived on that block for almost a year, and was given nothing but the utmost love and respect from everyone on the street. I loved Hanover Street.
Please know that my words are not an attempt to coerce anyone to don a cape and mask so they can patrol the streets nightly in an attempt to thwart crime. If you're old enough to read this and you don't have 'The Hero Factor' yet, then maybe you just don't have it. It's not something that can be learned or taught, it's instinctual. But if you don't have it, then what do you have? If not 'The Hero Factor', then what is your gift(s)? If you suffer from anxiety, depression, or bipolar, then you have that something extra, somewhere. It's the balance of nature. It's the yin and the yang. You suffer in one aspect of your life, so you'll have the ability to excel in another. It's why most all extremely beautiful people are dumb as shit. It's why autistic people can count their asses off. It's just how nature works.
Stop looking at the depression or anxiety as an illness, and count it as a blessing. Start embracing it by finding out what it is that you excel at. Get more in touch with You and find out what gift(s) you have. I'm still learning mine, and I just added superhuman-writing-ability to my list. What'd you add to yours?
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