I remain the most ardent spectator of people's response to this column. By itself it is a continuous lesson in mental health and illnesses.
Take for instance last week's feature, Not everyone enjoys Christmas, and the response it elicited from a commenter who remarked, "You sound as if you are a moaner, strongly suggest you get a life and start living."
Someone asked me if I respond to such criticisms and I admitted I do. And did. I responded by calling my sister, the journalist, repeating it to her and engaging in sustained, raucous laughter, running commentary, and more laughter.
I can take criticism and, when it's mockery as this "Lord" wrote, I can still laugh as much as I did, thankful that despite what portends, I can laugh.
Quite opposite to that rebuke, I do have a life and I am living it. What I'm doing is what so many cannot dream or dare to do: I am living it how I choose.
My focus is first pleasing God and then I do, within reason, what pleases me. I no longer conform to other people's thoughts or expectations purely because their thoughts are not my thoughts and their ways are not my ways (borrowed from the prophet Isaiah).
But I confess there are times when I am a moaner and it affects people.
When I write, there are always people who disagree with me and some never grasp my point of view. Others, being able only to take their feelings into account when we are both involved, still don't/can't appreciate that when I describe how a situation affects my mental health, I'm writing about me–my experience, my reaction, my action, my feelings.
I'm learning people are fragile and should always be handled with care, regardless of how mentally well they think they are and especially when compared to how mentally ill they think I am.
But I'm not shying away from confronting how others make me feel and I continue to teach that (1) it's okay to express how you feel; (2) expressing your feelings may be interpreted as malice especially if it includes any hurt or pain caused by someone else, and (3) if opening up liberates you from hurt, then open up.
Regardless of what I write, I positively impact at least one life and that's gratifying for me. I've been the recipient of thousands of messages, postings, emails, and other communications from people who have extended loads of appreciation for the work/quest I've undertaken.
That's my reward. I embrace it with the sometimes scathing criticisms. I accept it with the fallout among family and friends who see themselves in what I write and choose galls over compassion, support or even elementary understanding of what I'm attempting to do on behalf of others. I take my risks. I own my fate.
And in the vein of delights this work brings, I rediscovered one correspondence and, again on the prompting of my sister, I've decided to share about it.
I received a four-page hand-written letter a few years ago from a stranger which began, "My Loving Caroline, I am a great fan of yours since I regularily (sic) reads (sic) allot (sic) of your articles published in the Guardian... Your stories about yourself are quite sad and I sometimes wonder why you are writing so much on yourself."
With much admonishment and numerous unsupported statements about various mental health subjects, and reminding me I had admitted to "suffering from a mental ill-ness (sic)" my faithful reader plodded on.
"Hurt is a dangerous weapon–to both man and woman," he wrote, "and it carries with it side effects as stress to its highest degree and frustratedness (sic). Mental illness and its side effects works (sic) hand-in-hand to destroy the human fabric...
"My vibrations shows me that you are a lonely woman at this point in time and that you are hopefully hoping to find great kindness to give to you together with love, caring and understanding for your late years."
Then came the suggestion that if I accepted his overture "it will be a turning point in my life" among many other expressions about what I could benefit if I called the enclosed number.
I understand what the man attempted and I commend him for his courage to write and willingness to accept me as I am, wanting to provide me with what he thought I am/was missing. Then came the highpoint.
"I see you as an honest woman, as your writing is telling the world of your mental illness. You are not ashamed to relate it to the world."
That sentence wiped the humour off my face. Regardless of his motives, (which were well expressed) this man exhibited the understanding that I was not merely moaning and, even if it appeared so, he was offering to comfort me and complement my life with the gifts he thought himself to possess.
Nothing trumps kindness.
Best wishes for 2016.