I am a little pencil in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world.
When I went on sick leave, I discovered how much my identity and my sense of accomplishment is tied up in my work.
My job isn’t glamorous by any means, in fact, it’s very much the opposite.
I’m the second in command at a house belonging to two boys with autism. They are my raison d’etre if you will.
Yes, it involves a lot of bodily fluid cleaning, wiping runny noses, dealing with temper tantrums and the mundane.
It is also immensely profound at times.
I take my job very seriously into my heart because their quality of life is directly proportional to how hard I work.
How could I live with myself if I, for a second, decided to half-ass my work?
This is one of the reasons I think I will be an excellent psychologist some day.
As I’ve written before, my family is rife with people who manage a multitude of psychiatric disorders from schizophrenia to bi-polar, borderline personality disorder and garden variety depression and anxiety.
It is my love for the flawed parts of us, and we all have these parts, that makes me feel such love and compassion for humanity. I am never disappointed for having a conversation with someone, least of all people with psychiatric disorders.
They are such remarkable studies of humanity that I’m humbled and awed. I feel that my little brother, one of those with a serious psychiatric disorder, have to be my purpose. I am endlessly fascinated by the human mind for what it can do to us and the human spirit for how it copes with these things.
My reason for being is make a difference for people. I think I realised that as a seven year old.
What is your love? What is your purpose? What would you do if money was no object?