There is nothing like a rush to the emergency room and the near loss of a foot or leg that spurs the need and appreciation of the spiritual life. Aging is a continuing miracle for me; it is liberating and renewing if, as Seneca explained, you know how to use it.

I’m learning how to use it. Creativity and gentle warmth.

Surprisingly, these years are turning into the sweetest of my life, leg troubles or not.

I’ve repeatedly read about how fear, abuse, and aloneness often break children early on.  We are so vulnerable and fragile that it is easy enough to break us into pieces that haunt us all through life.

Quite often – you know who you are – we are broken at the earliest years- the most precious, formative, and fragile time of life.

I was one of those broken children who could never understand what was happening to me or why and lived my life in a whirlwind of terror, lies, hiding, and guile.

I’ve been working to put the pieces back all these years, just like Humpty Dumpty, one of the most accurate cliches ever. It’s like brick-laying, I imagine, it has to be down slowly and thoughtfully, one piece at a time.

Several years ago, thanks to my readers’ faith, courage, and honesty, I realized that something was wrong with how I responded to the horror and hatred that has become so ingrained a part of social media and the sharing of a life. I don’t always seem to be listening, but I am always listening.

I was a hermit for decades when I wrote books; no one could get to me; I worked and lived in my head.

I chose a different way to the right, and after 2016, I was astonished and caught off guard by the hatred, lies, and rage pouring into my inbox and blog posts. Donald Trump did not invent hatred, but he knew how to make it mainstream and acceptable. Today’s social media is a reflection of his spirit.

I did not know how to handle this sudden onslaught of hatred and viciousness and did not take it well.

The messages from others and my heart finally broke through after years of what I can call addiction. I was not able to ignore or to know how to respond. I know now there is only one way to respond. Don’t.

I was hyper-sensitive to this kind of assault, it was a powerful trigger to me, and I fought and fought and bought as best I could. If my early life was marked by anything, it was marked by fighting losing battles and failing to fend off abusers, bullies, and those in my life who could break me into pieces and not see how broken or hurt I was.

I was angry all the time and frightened all the time, and the world around me responded in kind. I was constantly bullied, a bookish and shy and skinny nerd, the perfect target.

A couple of months ago, I  realized that I had a problem I couldn’t solve by myself. I called my therapist Peggy and asked if we could discuss it. Peggy and I have been through a great deal together; she always improves me.

So we did go to work on it. Like many people who recover from mental illness, I know that help helps. So I finally asked for help.

Peggy, who is wise and experienced,  helped me understand my problem. These assaults – familiar now to anyone who mentions politics or who writes in the public digital domain – were triggers, she said. Rather than succumb to it, I had to understand it.

The messages, she said,  brought me back to my childhood. Each was a trigger of awful memories. I trust Peggy completely. She never lies to me and pulls no punches with me.

They had nothing to do with now.

“Just because somebody says you are bad,” she said, “doesn’t mean you are bad.” It seemed like a simple thought but hadn’t occurred to me. Bullies know how to get to people; that’s their mark and trade. Just watch the news.

Therapy in general, and Peggy in particular, has helped to save my life.

She walked me through the things I had experienced that caused me to lash out at people who tormented me and attacked me all the more because they got to me. That is the hallmark of bullies, said Peggy.

There is nothing in it for them if you don’t care. .

Once they smell fear, they come back again and again. The only thing that stumps them is when you stop listening, stop hurting, and stop paying attention to what people say about you. She said you are a good person, doing good work, aging gracefully, working hard to be healthy, and learning how to love.

You are also finding great joy in flowers.

She said you need to feel good about yourself, inside and out. You need to see what other people can see. You never have.

I told her I feared that I was so angry at these people – they are almost literally destroying free and open speech –  that I was starting to become one of them. On top of that, they kept bringing me back to the darkest parts of me.

That, she said, will never happen. You will never become one of them. It’s just not in you. I believe her now.

It seems your readers know you better than you know yourself, she said; that makes sense in a way. It is beautiful that they stuck their necks out to see the good in you and help you see it in yourself.

It’s something of a miracle to me, this change. The message broke through. For one thing, I mostly stopped getting nasty mail; for another, I stopped caring about it.  You get what you give. The positive vibrations are coming back to me.

I got one troll message the other day and didn’t bother to read or delete it. Honestly, I don’t care anymore. I have good work to do, and a life that I love.  It might be that I am getting older and thus wiser,  or I might be taking Seneca’s advice as well as Peggy’s or my readers.

I am determined to make the most of it.

I see now that my flowers have played a huge role in this change and transformation.

I love the color and light in them and the color and light they are bringing out in me – something else a reader pointed out to me. This joy has been moving through me like a summer wind.

I am learning again how fulfilling life can be—so long trapped in the hard-driving, work and money-obsessed, increasingly angry world.

So few of us ever get to know it.

Creativity and gentle warmth. Hear, hear.

I am making the most of it.