Robert Burns was wise beyond his 26 years when he penned: “The best laid schemes o’mice an’ men / Gang aft agley.”

Millennial translation:  Stuff happens . . .

This month, I thought I would dive into my personal little theory of how spiritual/emotional wounds can lend themselves to physical dysfunction as a segue into something called Functional Neurological Disorder (FND) — and one accompanying approach to its correction, Pain Reprocessing Therapy.

Turn to Google (and maybe a book called The Way Out, by Alan Gordon and Alon Ziv) if you feel like exploring it now, because that aforementioned plan is once again on the back burner since clarity has not yet presented itself.

I’ve just found out that FND has not been the whole story in the medical-enigma-that-is-me soap opera.

I do believe it has been a part of my story, but I guess my deeply-held belief that it was never all of it has now been proven.

Well, almost proven — currently it’s a split decision as to whether or not what was found in the latest imaging is causing my most recent symptoms. “Prayers up!!” for that third opinion to come in and break the tie.

Still, a girl’s got to love the thought of a little vindication after 50 years of being dismissed as The Hypochondriac Village Idiot.  

I know, I know; it’s totally ungracious to relish in it  . . . note to self for Thursday’s Confession.

And in defense of all things medical, what was found is fairly rare . . . hmm . . . kind of like . . . ME?!?!  C’mon now, ‘fess up, ladies: Don’t you secretly sometimes like to think of yourself as a one-in-a-million woman?!?!

Good thing it’s becoming vest weather — one pocket for the Confession notepad . . . the other for a pencil on a string.

All jokes aside, being dismissed is just one piece of the collateral damage that can occur when a person falls into a dark spiritual and emotional place.

Cynicism, short temper, gloom, endless weeping for reasons unknown, moods on a sine curve . . . all could weave their way into my personality in those years. I could morph into this person who was quite off-putting, and be almost powerless to help myself.

Finding answers

I did not know why I took things so to heart . . . why I was so sensitive. I just found I could be easily angered or cut to emotional ribbons; it was hard to take much of anything in stride. Trust me, it’s a tough way to live.

I will always believe there is a chemical or physical basis for that, but without any way to prove it, I frequently got a lot of rolled eyes at my “bad attitude,” and when I most needed arms around me, I often got “suck it up, Buttercup”.

I’m not saying this wasn’t understandable; tolerance can have rather short staying power. But I am saying that it was very painful.

Tough love can have its place, but without true compassion, it can also be very destructive; dismissal and indifference were gasoline on my ever-smoldering fire of pain and confusion.

My late husband and I worked together before our relationship evolved into anything else.

After a mini flip-out one day, our conversation went something like this:

“I’m sorry; I can’t explain the mood swings at times. I swear it’s chemical.”

“Of course it is.”

I stopped in my tracks . . . “It’s been my experience that people tend to do that which makes them feel good — sometimes healthy, sometimes not.  I’ve seen how you suffer. No one would do this on purpose. For what? Attention? It only gets you negative attention.”

Another note to self: Pay more attention to this man.

Whether you’re the person struggling in the dark place or someone in that person’s circle, try to take “do unto others,” “walk a mile in her shoes”, and “unconditional love” to the 1,000th power.

You can help each other through it, and grow in love, grace, and charity. Both sides can find a way to do better.

I know how distasteful those platitudes are if you’re the struggler.

You’d probably rather find me around town, haul off with an adrenaline-backed right cross, and send my teeth flying down my throat — because I just don’t understand how it is.

Actually, I do; I could come up with that line because I felt it so many times myself . . . to the bottom of my socks.

In a past column, I mentioned that what I most lost in those years was any capacity for joy.

That loss is one of the worst two-edged swords there is: when you no longer possess joy, you are almost incapable of exuding it.

Humanity in general aside, think about the ripple effects of that in just your own circle for a moment.

I look back with profound sorrow and regret for every time I short-changed my husband and daughter in that regard . . . every time borderline self-obsession blinded me to their needs and pain.

I cannot have those days back, but I can strive to make my remaining ones better.

Finding God’s love

If you just can’t get your heart into that place, try a formal Marian Consecration of yourself and your family.  

There are a few of them from which to choose, but I recently completed one that focuses on the virtues and gifts of the Holy Spirit; it is 46 days in duration — one for each of the stars on the mantle of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

This structured yet simple practice has renewed my sense of myself as His child . . . a daughter He wants to keep close to Him, to really know, and to rejoice over every time she manages to become even a shade more His likeness to the world around her.

That is the true foundation of joy in this life.

The prince of evil loves to rob us of it — and our capacity to pay it forward.

Wrap yourself in Mary’s mantle, and never let him win.