Today I Matter
We are a non-profit 501(c)(3) organization established in memory of Timothy Lally. Our mission is to reduce the stigma and shame of mental illness and addiction, and to promote the physical, emotional, and mental health of our community.
We are committed to promoting and advocating for the physical, emotional, and mental health of all in our communities. We are dedicated to speaking out and educating the public at large about recognizing, preventing, and treating these illnesses. In addition, we support positive health through the arts, education, sports, and other activities that enhance each individual’s self-image and sense of well-being.
We are committed to promoting and advocating for the physical, emotional, and mental health of all in our communities. We are dedicated to speaking out and educating the public at large about recognizing, preventing, and treating these illnesses. In addition, we support positive health through the arts, education, sports, and other activities that enhance each individual’s self-image and sense of well-being.
Timothy John Lally
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Timothy John Lally is the inspiration for the mission of Today I Matter,Inc. He was born on January 26, 1986 during the Patriot / Bears Super Bowl game, destined to be an avid sports fan. He grew up playing baseball, wiffle ball, backyard football and did shot put on the high school track and field team. He loved humor and had a quick and sharp wit. He also had a gentle side to him and he gave great hugs! Family gatherings were always a good time for him. Music and art were favorite passions of his. He played guitar and was proud to play at the Webster Theater in Hartford with his band of buddies from Ellington and Enfield. They called themselves "Going Hollywood.” He also appreciated classic rock artists and loved the music of Jimi Hendrix and The Doors. He often sketched and did some water color projects, demonstrating his talent and imagination. (Some reprints of his art are available on this site for a small donation).
Late in high school, Tim started to struggle with severe panic and depression. Treatment never really helped him much and he eventually sought relief with opiate pills bought from acquaintances. His use spiraled to eventual use of heroin. He had multiple treatment experiences from individual therapy to intensive outpatient therapy and inpatient rehab programs. This allowed him periods of sobriety, but never sustained, and resulted in his eventual heroin overdose and death on January 21, 2016. Though Tim was embarrassed and discouraged about his struggle against this demon, he would be proud that his name is carried on in an effort to help others struggling with similar issues. |
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How We Can Help
We advocate for greater acceptance and compassion for those with addiction and mental illness.
- We provide speakers and educational resources for schools, civic organizations, families and individuals pertaining to
understanding, recognition, prevention, and interventions for mental health and substance abuse. We provide training on
opioid overdose and naloxone ( Narcan) administration, and QPR ( a system for helping those who may be suicidal)
- We support activities which promote the physical, emotional, and mental health of our community
- We support personal growth through scholarships for those studying art and music.
- We provide speakers and educational resources for schools, civic organizations, families and individuals pertaining to
understanding, recognition, prevention, and interventions for mental health and substance abuse. We provide training on
opioid overdose and naloxone ( Narcan) administration, and QPR ( a system for helping those who may be suicidal)
- We support activities which promote the physical, emotional, and mental health of our community
- We support personal growth through scholarships for those studying art and music.
When We Speak Out
Hope is a rope, a ladder, a letter, a prayer. The match that lights the votive in the cathedral. The flame that unfurls itself from the waxen wick. Anything that lifts our sight.
Too long we’ve hung our heads, clutching worry beads at night. Too long, the lonely vigil at the window, cell phone
on the night stand, the pillow sodden with sorrow.
And the hole in the bucket. Everything we’ve poured into it. For the fire. For the house burning down. For our child at the window. For the flame and blame and shame.
Too long we’ve hung our heads to not see neighbors‘ fingers pointed at our smoking doors. To not hear what they’re thinking, what they say, what they think we don’t hear them say, what we try not to think or say ourselves.
We are the conversation that stumbles and stalls, as if these photos in our wallets are of needles and spoons and forged prescriptions instead of children with braces or caps and gowns or promise.
Maybe that picture of promise is secret, kept on our dresser like a still life waiting to be painted. Maybe this is the child who will live only within us again, like a second heartbeat.
Maybe our child’s on a run, or is done running. This is the child for whom we ache. Every cell in our body on fire because we hold our child’s flickering light in our palm.
We’ve hung our heads in prayer and fear and despair too long in the dark cathedral of night. Hope is the chorus of stories, the touch of a thousand hands. Hope is the lifting of voices until the sound is thunder and ocean and echo.
with permission
Julia Morris Paul
Too long we’ve hung our heads, clutching worry beads at night. Too long, the lonely vigil at the window, cell phone
on the night stand, the pillow sodden with sorrow.
And the hole in the bucket. Everything we’ve poured into it. For the fire. For the house burning down. For our child at the window. For the flame and blame and shame.
Too long we’ve hung our heads to not see neighbors‘ fingers pointed at our smoking doors. To not hear what they’re thinking, what they say, what they think we don’t hear them say, what we try not to think or say ourselves.
We are the conversation that stumbles and stalls, as if these photos in our wallets are of needles and spoons and forged prescriptions instead of children with braces or caps and gowns or promise.
Maybe that picture of promise is secret, kept on our dresser like a still life waiting to be painted. Maybe this is the child who will live only within us again, like a second heartbeat.
Maybe our child’s on a run, or is done running. This is the child for whom we ache. Every cell in our body on fire because we hold our child’s flickering light in our palm.
We’ve hung our heads in prayer and fear and despair too long in the dark cathedral of night. Hope is the chorus of stories, the touch of a thousand hands. Hope is the lifting of voices until the sound is thunder and ocean and echo.
with permission
Julia Morris Paul