Lately, I’ve noticed how stressed the average American on the ground, is.  Most businesses even seem to be affected.  Receptionists don’t look up or if they do it’s in annoyance.  Grocery store clerks shove your change and [...]]]> Write about a subject of interest or something you are passionate about and others will be, too!  Passion is contagious. 

Lately, I’ve noticed how stressed the average American on the ground, is.  Most businesses even seem to be affected.  Receptionists don’t look up or if they do it’s in annoyance.  Grocery store clerks shove your change and receipt at you as they command you to have a nice day.  Convenience store cashiers are pokey and ignore your outstretched hand to pay for your gas and get on your way.  People honk when you change lanes, even though your blinker has been begging for them to let you squeeze in that lane for over a mile on the highway, making you miss your turn, thank you very much.  Banks won’t change a 50 dollar bill unless you can prove citizenship and a driver’s license won’t do and could you please open up an account.  Greeters at WalMart seem irritating, or is it just me? 

The Farmer’s Market is selling over-ripe fruit and my local favorite restaurant has become less favored, as they have cut quality of food to soup kitchen level, or maybe soup kitchens are better?  Current reason we still go is due to a few friendly servers, a rare commodity.  Those servers have confided that their paychecks are 3 weeks behind, you know, that $2.33 hourly wage they get. 

Ok, now that we’re all depressed, what do we do about it?  When I was growing up, my brother had an annoying habit of whistling.  It was his way of cheering himself up, and it worked, but it ticked me off to a level of deadly anger.  I always have been sensitive to sound, and though I enjoy cheer, whistling isn’t there for me.

However, the point of bringing up the whistle, is that we all have the power and dare I say the responsibility to put on a cheerful outside self and make the day a little brighter for another.  Geeze, Louise, get over “it.”  I could tell you stories that would make you cry, but why?  How about some manners?  My mother talked repeatedly about how you couldn’t air your dirty laundry to the world and expect people not to turn up their noses. 

Let’s try some old-fashioned, country-style, “Y’all come back now, hear?” manners.  It’s not hard, and comes with a nice extra bonus of feeling a little better, yourself. 

Go stand in front of the mirror and see if you can find your smile.  If it looks like old money, work on it.  Say “thank you,” and not through gritted teeth.  Let someone merge in front of you in traffic.  Smile.  Look at the WalMart greeter who’s feet are probably killing her, and say “Nice to see you, today.”  Smile.  Tell the bank teller you will “go buy a pack of mints at the grocery store to break the fifty, and no thanks, I’ve already placed my million I was saving to open an account with your bank in rebuilding Wall Street.  Just doing my part to save the economy so, I can’t spare a dime to open up my 50th bank account in town to break a $50.  It pains me, not to be able to help your bank in their time of need, but it’s true.”  Smile.  Hug your kids, look the tired grocery clerk in the eye and say “I appreciate you.  I bet you’ve worked hard today.”  Smile.

See, the day is better already, all it took was a few manners.  I think it’s a contagious disease, but it’s ok, we can stand a new virus of good feelings.  Write about it!  Spread it around.

What can we do?  We can quit taking it personally.  When we get angry, it’s our choice.  I know it doesn’t seem that way.  We’re not robots.  [...]]]>

“That’s where most criticism from others goes.  We hear the words, and even if we don’t believe it, the pain of what was said finds it’s way quickly to our heart.”

What can we do?  We can quit taking it personally.  When we get angry, it’s our choice.  I know it doesn’t seem that way.  We’re not robots.  Of course we react to “stimuli” and what people say, STIMULATES us. 

Even so, we can work on the way we react.  Eventually, we can fight off the pain and the responding anger or depression when we are being verbally attacked or criticized.

Most of the time, our pain is caused because we care about that person’s opinion of us.  We should rarely get upset at words of criticism from someone we don’t know.  However, even those words seem to have power. 

The media is full of strangers doing things to hurt and or kill over spoken words.  I always wonder, “Why couldn’t they just walk away?”  Simple solutions forgotten, in the heat of the moment, and then life is forever changed. 

Are we teaching the skill of protecting ourselves from undeserved criticism?  Do we have it ourselves?  Can we give examples of it to our kids?  How else will they be able to survive the hard knocks of life, if every negative word spoken by another hurts them?

We should be able to shield ourselves and our loved ones from what carelessness slips from the mouth of another. 

Would that it were easy.  The political war we see everyday is a “he said –  he said” battle.  But, no one can stop someone else from speaking what they will.  Yet, the way we respond might take away some of their power.

Keep your perspective.  If someone is “barking” in your direction, turn away with a mental smile.  Think of something that builds you up, such as a recent accomplishment.  Take away their power by putting your thoughts on the positive in your life.

If you have relationship with the one who is hurting you, let them know once you both are calm.  Otherwise, write it off. Blow it off.  Step out of it.  Put it behind you. 

Some battles are not worth fighting.  Frustrations are part of the day, and if they are a frequent part of your life, look in a different direction and see if you can walk that path.

for me,  time is too short to put up with frequent pain from someone who is near.  Quietly, firmly, ask them to “stop.” 

If they care, they will.  If they don’t, then you have other decisions to make, yes? 

May peace enter your place, is my wish for you and even myself, as we read and write about life’s journey.

Come back tomorrow, for more thoughts from the Writing Room,

Author’s Note:  If you are in an abused relationship, of course be very careful about using assertiveness, as it could increase your danger; please seek professional help for how to get to safety.

-I am Marisue, and I write.

Red is the heart of life, Flowing in our veins.

Blue is the Sky, Black is the night

Brown is the Fear, That takes us to flight.

A silly poem, but a necessary one. The mind’s eye requires the description of life. Mom had 38 years of sight. Everything [...]]]> Yellow Is the Sunshine

Yellow is the Sunshine, White is the rain.

Red is the heart of life, Flowing in our veins.

Blue is the Sky, Black is the night

Brown is the Fear, That takes us to flight.

A silly poem, but a necessary one. The mind’s eye requires the description of life. Mom had 38 years of sight. Everything thing she heard, saw, experienced was stored in her mind. A normal occurrance.

When memories visit, our mind’s eye paints the picture. For Mom, 2 years into the dark dimmed mental sight. It was the scariest part of not seeing. She was sinking into the deepest dark of black; the thickness of nothing.

She came to me one early morning, before the sun woke up the world.

“Marisue, are you awake?”

“I’m always awake, Mom, I live to be awake. I love awake. No, I’m not awake. I don’t plan to be awake for hours.” Mom had her days and nights mixed up and thought everyone ticked to her clock.

I don’t fault her, we just needed the sleep she couldn’t seem to find.

“I can’t see.” Mom’s voice had a strange eerie sound to it.

“Uh, Mom, I know that part.” We lived on sarcasm, it was a favorite tool from the Devil’s Toolbox that kept us chopping away at his Hell. We never used it against each other, but rather to entertain the characters in our play. I could not have expressed it that way, then. It was something felt.

“No, I really can’t see. Inside, I can’t see inside.”

“Mom, I can’t hear that at dark-thirty. You’re going to have to explain.” Well, 16 1/2 year olds don’t know everything.

Mom sobbed. I hugged her and waited.

“I’m losing the pictures in my mind.” She touched my cheeks, and slid her hand across my face and hair. I hate hell. I wanted my mom’s heart back. I wanted her to smile and laugh and to SEE.

“Things are turning black. When people talk to me, when they describe things, when I try to “see” I have a black hole. No pictures.” I understood blindness more than I wanted to. She couldn’t get away from it, not even for a second. I was beginning to taste it myself. Some things I didn’t want to share.

I don’t know where my voice came from, nor how I knew what I knew. Was it from God? It was from somewhere, and I was grateful then, and I’m kind of in awe now. My dad had the gift, more deeply than I. I caught on quickly as I observed his insight everyday of my life. I will give the credit for my next words to him.

“Mom, then we will become painters. We will paint new pictures, everyday.”

And, we did. Hope stepped into the room. Hell slid to the corner. In the form of poems and description, everyday I gave her references. “Yellow is the Sunshine, Mom. White is the Rain. Red is the heart of life, or the blouse you refuse to see.” We dissolved into laughter, the laughter only deep pain brings.

I created poems, silly sentences and developed the habit of speaking softly in her ear as we walked the streets, shopped the stores, read the paper. I described the people I saw, and how they made me feel, sometimes giving in to mildly mean commentary. “We just passed a woman, mom, with the lumpiest knees I’ve ever seen. Be thankful, Mom. O, be thankful. Some things you don’t want to see.” We laughed, an odd pair walking down the street, arm in arm, laughing away the sad and the dark.

Our sense of humor was both wicked and sick. It was a beautiful gift.

Of course, not everyone understood the attacks of our words at times, though we tried to keep them hidden. If they overheard, well, we just didn’t care a whole lot at that moment. We were locked into survival. Our best friends were those who joined in the game.

And so it went. Words to paint pictures by, words to feed the mind’s eye. It is..and carries an insatiable hunger.

We can lose Hell in a Rainbow, I am Marisue, and I write.

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I first published this article on HubPages.com.