Tag

memories

Inside a hard time

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[Editor’s note: I feel compelled to preface this by telling you how vulnerable I feel in posting this. I realize that vulnerability comes from fear of being met with shame. Being shut down, being quieted, being negatively talked about. But, I will write it anyway. Because I channel that feeling that I have when I read a blog post that deeply resonates with me, that makes me think, “Wow, someone else really gets it. Someone else was brave enough to write about it.” And I hope that maybe I can evoke that feeling in just one person. And should that be the case – should one person feel grateful, relief, companionship, then the vulnerability was worth it.

I have written and re-written this post many times, ever since my wonderful dad suggested that I write. During many versions, I added in something at the end to the effect of, “But I am okay! Don’t worry about me! I’m fine!” Which speaks to my fear of worrying others, of wanting to do everything I can to keep those in my life calm and happy. But I am gently putting those fears aside. And writing what’s real.]

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Not if they are wounds that were never processed. Events from a month ago, a year ago, two decades ago, can and will still affect you.

Events and memories that you had buried deep within you, taped up, and topped with a sparkly pink bow, will not be fooled, and will still find their way to the surface, claw their way out, and demand to be acknowledged and processed. Gates will be broken down, dams will be breached, and it will rush at you, over you, through you, just as a flood does. Five weeks later, you will still be waiting for the waters to abate.

Old habits and behaviors will rear their heads. You will initially welcome them back without a second thought. You will initially forget to question them.

You will initially try to fight it. You’ll think things like, I shouldn’t be feeling this way or What is wrong with me? and I’ve been fine for so long, I should still be fine.

Your chest will constantly feel constricted. So will your head and stomach, but it’s in your chest where you’ll notice it at all times.

You will sleep, a lot. You will have little energy. You will throw your energy into work, and collapse after. Weekends will be hard.

You will inwardly laugh when one of your students says, “You are just so happy! Are you ever NOT happy?” and you will respond honestly but simply, and say, “Sometimes I am happy, but sometimes I am mad or sad, too.”

You will remind yourself to eat, despite a lack of appetite.

You will go to new types of appointments and cry. You will cry a lot. You will realize your voice is flat. You will talk about events and memories. When she asks you if you want to process x, y, or z, you will laugh, and tell her, “No. So I guess we should.” You will realize that these appointments, this new methodology, might be the key to your lock.

You will start to have a few minutes, an hour, maybe even part of a day here and there when the tight compression in your chest lifts. When you notice that you can breathe. When you haven’t cried. When your voice is a little more sing-songy. When you can think about people and places and memories without waves of nausea and dread.

And then those moments will end.

You will feel a true acceptance of where you are, of what’s happening. You will understand that it was kind of inevitable. You’ll get that while it might not have happened this year, it would’ve happened eventually. You will trust that it can’t last forever. Eventually the waters will subside. Eventually the floods will stop.

And so you will just keep going, minute by minute, day by day.

Because there’s no other option.

And you remind yourself of your beloved poem that you post every solstice, and you take to heart the words:

So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can-
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep faith,
keep always
towards the light

Grounding my body.

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I have been thinking about the point where the body and the mind split.

Usually I would never try to do that. I’m all about bridging the two, integrating, getting everything in balance.

But lately I’ve been in an interesting space, where pulling the two apart is necessary. And it’s hard to find that point.

When I think about “grounding,” historically for me it has meant bringing me back to the present, getting my brain remembering where I am, what’s going on, and focusing on the here and now – rather than spinning years into the past or miles into the hypothetical future. Grounding for me has been like meditation. Focus on the here and now. Focus on the 5 senses. Focus on what you can see, hear, and feel. Grounding for many I know means taking a deep breath when your brain is taking you to places you don’t want to go. It’s taking a minute in your office to center, or going for a walk during lunch. Grounding – almost literally – is bringing yourself back to the ground, rather than floating off into the abyss of memories, thoughts, worries. I would imagine that many of you reading this are nodding, saying that you do this all the time, even if you aren’t consciously participating or realizing it.

Lately, though, none of those strategies have worked for me. And it’s easy to immediately react with why not, why isn’t it working, let me run through everything I’ve tried, why am I still anxious, why am I still going over past events and memories, why am I stuck on certain thoughts, why why why. (Shockingly, that doesn’t seem to help.) What I’ve realized is that all of my brain/mind grounding strategies are continuing to work wonders. I do them without even having to think about it, more often than not. But it’s my body that needs grounding. And that’s harder, because that’s not something you can control with thoughts. It’s also harder to talk about, for me. While I have spent the last few years sharing the thoughts and inner workings of my brain, anything to do with body feels vulnerable and scary to share.

Grounding techniques help my brain stop spinning. But they don’t stop the anxious pit in my stomach, or the tornado that whirs around in it. They don’t open up my chest so I feel like I can breathe again. They don’t stop the pounding in my eyes and in my head. I believe that we all have experienced something traumatic, or extremely emotional in our lives. Thinking about that event in your own life, can you now see that difference in how you’ve experienced it over the years – sometimes ruminating, thinking, obsessing, remembering, grieving, in your brain, but other times feeling it, literally, in your stomach, in your heart, in your head, in or on your body? Whether it was the death of the loved one, a car accident, a traumatic injury, a sexual or physical assault, an invasive medical procedure, a disease, an intense altercation at work, an emotionally-taxing event – it goes on and on, and it all had an effect on both brain and body. And just as you might keep reliving it in your brain, you might keep reliving it in your body, too.

So. How do I ground my body? What do I do in those times when I’m happily going about my day, and my brain is quiet and calm, focused on work and life, but my body is stuck?

I actually don’t know.

Yoga helps. Bodywork helps. Massage helps. Sometimes exercise helps.

But the rest, I’m still figuring out.

Does this make sense? Can you relate? What do you do to ground your body?

If only I could capture it

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Do you ever wish that you could capture other senses, the way we are able to capture sight with photographs?

I take so many pictures of flowers, sunsets, the sky – and I can always go back to them, which I do, and look at them – remembering what those colors and that light looked like. Anytime I want to.

But I wish I could bottle the other senses, too. I wish I could capture what spring air smells like, what a warm breeze feels like. When I step outside and the air is just….perfect, I drink it in. I take deep breaths and gulp in the sweet air, allowing it to course through my body. If only there was a way to put that smell, that feeling, into a cup or a bottle or a picture or a something, so that on a cold, dreary day, or when I feel run down or discouraged, I could have that air back, the same way I can go to my pictures and look at that sunset.