Growing Up Broken is hard. Yet it is easier than growing up whole and being hurt, I guess, or I would not have done it. Fixing yourself seems an impossible task. I have been aware I was damaged goods for some twelve years. Asking for help gets you practicaly nowhere in the United Kingdom. Eveyone is in denial.

The facts speak for themselves: 25%-40% sexually assaulted in some way as children; 90% or so of prostitues, addicts and criminals abused. The problem in our society, the single biggest cost to us all, is sexual abuse of children. And do not think it is strangers doing it. Some is, but most are abused by close relatives meant to care for them and family friends or older siblings.

Growing up broken was hard. Breaking down, mentally, then coming together was tough. Only to have my body injured and untreated by an uncaring and ineffective National Health Service such that it has broken down beneath my healing mind has been a burden and a blessing. I can not imagine I would have the focus of mind I have now without this process.

A friend who worries continuously is faced with some real challenges in her life. She makes things worse with incessant worry. Her mind, starved of peace, leads her to the wrong actions time after time. The right actions she can not see, despite them offering themselves boldly to her. Her worry stands in the way. This week she came to me for advice, the day after I found this old poem and I was able to say, “work out what you can do and take right action and work out what you can’t do and learn to accept”.

Whats Worrying Me?

If worry could solve things,
That would be real fine,
I’d worry like a madman,
Nearly all the time,
I’d worry ’bout my money,
And my health and God,
And if we must experiment,
On cats and dogs,
I’d worry ’bout the Buddha,
If he cries at me,
And worry ’bout my breakfast,
And me afternoon tea,
But most of all I’d worry,
‘Bout what’s worrying me.

It seems the National Health Service are trialling marijhuana joint prescriptions for pain relief.