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There’s a picture of me in my brother’s lap, right after Mom brought me home from the hospital.

Legend has it that his first gift to me was a cold, which turned to pneumonia, that I’m lucky to be alive.

He’d had 20 months with my parents all to himself. What must he have made of this football-sized intruder?

I came into a world that had always had him. There never was a world without brother.

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I like it best when Cheerful Confidence leads the meetings. Sometimes, though, she’s under the weather, and one of the gremlins takes over.

Who Do You Think You’re Fooling, or Everyone Else Is So Much Better Than You So Why Bother, or You’re A Fraud.

They’re good at disguising themselves as The Voice of Truth, and lord knows they’re not concerned with accuracy.

Thank god for Self-Awareness and Self-Compassion, who alert me to their tricks and unmask the gremlins. Otherwise I’d never get anything done!

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What does it mean to be wicked?

Is it something inborn, or a part of one’s nature? Or does it merely describe behavior?

I truly believe nobody is born wicked. That each of us comes into the world completely good, zestful, fully alive.

Alas, we don’t hold onto that. And perhaps the things that strip our true nature away, perhaps those are what deserve the label, “wicked.”

Not us. Definitely not us.

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