Posted on Dec 23, 2018
Something I do to relax, unwind, de-stress (with not enough regularity) is to submerse myself in a tub of sudsy, hot water until my ears are submerged, leaving the rest of my face above the water. This acts as a decompression chamber for me. Once I slow my mind, its noise subsides; and all I can hear is my breathing and my heart beating.
When I can focus my attention on these two things: breaths and heartbeats—a “surreality” sets in. Everything floats away. It is just me, as au naturel as it gets. Lungs and heart doing their thing. My body in perfect harmony. No interruptions or distractions. Having a total in-my-body experience. As a woman, this is a close as it gets to emptying my mind. A limited shut off button, or a reset button, if you will.
No. The cares of the world haven’t changed significantly once I emerge from my water chamber, but I have. I feel reborn in an inexplicable way. I am not the same person who entered the chamber. Just as with any reboot, the operating system doesn’t restart exactly as before. A reconfiguration takes place.
That is what it is like when I give my brain a break by having an in-my-body water experience. I am held in place by space and time (and the solid support of a bathtub) sufficiently that I can completely relax, enough to “float” and concentrate on the essence of Life: breaths and beats.
I also peruse any manner of reading material before or after decompression. For this entry, I will share with you the words of a poet.
Giver of life, giver of breath
You, the mystery in our breath
the light in our breath
the breath of our breath
You who are life
without whom there is no life
in whom there is no death…
We desire, in our bodies
in our hearts, in our souls
and between us
and between all breathing beings
a harmony like the harmony
of the stars and planets
shining and whirling for Your sake
a music
like the music of the spheres
~from “Supplication” by Pir Zia Inayat-khar published in Presence. Vol. 21. No. 4. December 2015.
Such poetic words about breath and breathing! The only time I give my own breaths a chance to be even remotely poetic would be in my decompression chamber. Somehow that which is the very function of every day life becomes soothing when heard under water—with only the steady drumbeat of my heart to accompany the rhythm.
Music. The music of my body. My body in perfect harmony.
For those briefest of moments, there is total absence of chaos. Pure serenity. Very rare in this day and age—and at this time of year.
How will you find serenity—your own version of peace—this holiday season? If I may offer a suggestion, maybe take a stolen moment to savour the words of the above poem? Let the words trip over your tongue, tickling your imagination, your breath connecting you to every other breathing being, connecting to the harmony we crave this season.
May the winds of change—the true essence of this time of year on so many levels—refresh your spirit for the coming year.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in
~Leonard Cohen
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Posted on Nov 19, 2018
When I started writing this blog entry, it very quickly took the tone of a ranting vent, taking too long to get to my point. So let’s start there. A series of events relating to my health over a period of a few weeks culminated in my falling prey to that nasty speed bump of second guessing myself. As I reflect back, I think the speed bump jarred me so terribly because I had taken specific measures to ensure success.
But I failed.
And in that failure, questioned my judgment about how I was feeling in my own body and of what I was capable. It was only after emailing a client that I was fighting an adenoid (gland behind the ears) infection without antibiotics (the failed mission) and with an autoimmune disorder (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) that I was actually able to give myself permission to be too sick to work.
Losing one’s voice also impacts one’s ability to work when one’s job depends upon it. The doctor was more eager to write me a “doctor’s note” for work than a prescription for antibiotics. If only I had a boss to give a note to! Yes, the irony—did I need a note to give myself permission to be too ill to earn a living? But I digress.
I teach self-care and setting boundaries—and think I do fairly well practicing what I preach. But there are certain settings that pose extra challenges. Being sick is one of them, combined with my ingrained belief that I come last (if at all)—or more accurately in my head that everyone else comes before me (it’s not about me, you see, but about everyone else). I was raised that way; so it is second nature. I don’t even have to think about it.
Until I am sick—and then I do have to actually think about it. How far do I extend myself? What safeguards are in place? That works for pacing when I am “well.” When I fall ill, I have a harder time gauging what is reasonable, what is expected. Externally, not internally, driven. I can connect the dots of my past to understand where this dilemma comes from. I have a harder time sorting through it in the present.
So, in a nutshell, I struggle giving myself permission to be sick (to the exclusion of all other activities). Then when a male authority figure (aka physician) didn’t take me seriously (even though I put in extra effort to expedite my visit), I hit that speed bump of self-doubt with a heavy thud. Forcing me to circle the proverbial wagons and take care of myself (to the exclusion of all others).
And I have to be patient as this was a significant setback for me. I have to pace myself differently as I recover my baseline health. This experience has left me with many unanswered questions as well as a firm resolve to believe my body when it communicates with me. I have to break the lifelong pattern of not being seen, not being heard, not being believed—by doing those very things for mySelf.
I must take a hard look and see my Self. I must listen and hear my mind, body, and spirit. I must believe mySelf. Not to be confused with believing in myself. I do that OK these days. But believing me…Well, I know how to talk myself into or out of anything. I easily believe the indoctrination of my youth. But I do not readily believe my own felt experience. Add to that, it is SO difficult to consciously choose me. I am much better at doing what I can to meet expectations and commitments and perceived obligations.
So. How not to give up? The words “setback” and “recovery” come to mind along with the query: how many times does my dang phoenix have to be burned up and rise from the ashes??? My Phoenix must be running out of lives, or metamorphoses, by now!
Which brings me to the next thought to mull over: living in the mystery. In this case, living in the mystery of those unanswered questions I mentioned—and the mystery of what my charred Phoenix will transform into next. Maybe a creature who knows her own mind, speaks her own reality, listens with her heart, and moves (unapologetically) to her own beat.
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Posted on Oct 13, 2018
Once again I am combining two months into one blog. Somehow, when this happens, I feel guilty—and that I have to explain myself. I’m not sure of what I’m guilty: Being lazy? Failing? Deep-seated beliefs rumble below the surface. Beliefs I have been fighting for a long time—but most ardently since being diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/Myalgic Encephalomyelitis nearly 7 years ago.
It occurred to me today that I have never blogged about living with an invisible illness. Well, that’s not true. I have written about anxiety and depression. Those are also invisible illnesses. But we have this strange habit of separating mental and physical illnesses. Which is technically impossible for two reasons: 1) mental illness has a biological location—the brain; and 2) we cannot have a mental illness without a physical body. There is no such thing as separating the mind from the body. Emotions and cognitions all happen within the body—a physical location. So why do we separate them? And even more oddly, why do we classify one as “acceptable” or “within reason” and the other as “all in their head?” That is rather absurd.
However, my “physical” invisible illness is one that usually doesn’t get recognition in any field—and is often wrongly classified as “mental;” and therefore the human’s fault. So we’re back to the crazy notion that mental illness is not physical—and mental illness is judged to be of the person’s own making. I also don’t know how a person can experience debilitating symptoms without any causation (or be self-inflicted). Why would the brain (aka mental breakdown) mess with one’s body in that way? That makes no sense. I just finished watching the documentary on Netflix called “Unrest” by Jennifer Brea. I was horrified by how some patients are treated—taken away from loving homes and institutionalized without any further family contact! I also felt extremely lucky that my illness is not as severe as others experience it. I am not bed ridden. I haven’t lost my ability to communicate (brain misfiring aside). I am not in a semi-coma. And experts say this is self-inflicted???
I don’t know of any human being on this planet that would make themselves sick of their own volition. Yes, our choices often lead to sickness—but that’s not what we set out to do. And no one asks for anxiety or depression. Those are equally debilitating as the auto-immune illness I have. And sometimes I can’t tell them apart. Is this a depressive episode? Or a chronic fatigue crash?
This afternoon I took my dog for a 2km walk through the woods which tuckered me right out. I used to hike 16km in rocky terrain and make my way up and down mountains! At least I have a past life to reflect upon. Some people in the documentary were children and teenagers who hadn’t even lived yet. Their world consisted of their bedrooms and what they could experience from their beds. I can’t imagine being bedridden. However, every morning, getting out of bed is a struggle. So I could relate to the documentary—ironically as a chronic fatigue crash had me lying on the couch. Once the film was finished, all I wanted to do was rest. My dog had other ideas.
Tonight, I know a bath would be good for me post-massage; but the exertion required for “drawing a bath” discourages me from doing something good for my aching body—and prevent more soreness tomorrow. That’s when it dawned on me maybe I should write about this. It feels like too much work to fill a bathtub with water. Yes, you read that correctly. How can something so simple be far too much work—far more effort than it’s worth? Story of my life: assessing the cost-benefit ratio before pursuing any activity. So, instead of the exertion of bathing, I decided to write about my crash; when really all I want to do is read in bed.
This particular eddy of my thoughts is actually part of a bigger swirling mass in my brain within the theme of suffering well. This is not new to me, but has been resurfacing lately…
…Well, I had to abandon ship last night. My brain refused to keep up. And this morning it was a challenge to get out of bed—prompting me to ponder what it would be like to “give in” to the sluggishness and just stay in bed. It is a push-pull dynamic: grateful I have the energy to push myself out of bed, but always with the anticipation (the pull) of a rest. And never without with the overhanging thought I could/should be doing more. I have innumerable projects I want to pursue to completion, but insufficient mental and physical resources for follow through. And then I punish myself from deep within—those haunting beliefs that I am lazy or failing if I can’t produce/accomplish/achieve. Oddly enough, I asked myself this morning what it would be like to “indulge” in remaining in bed for a day; knowing full well my fellow CFS/ME sufferers who are bedridden often pay for indulging in any form of activity with a crash. So do I—but not as dramatically as seen in the documentary. Push-Pull.
I learned in the documentary that CFS/ME claims lives every year via suicide—the depression consuming their compromised life into appearing meaningless, hopeless, pointless. And it certainly feels that way at times. The struggle is real even if unseen. I feel it every day that I cannot live up to cultural expectations: to earn sufficient money for my daily expenses let alone a future retirement; to attend social functions; to participate in activities that others enjoy easily. I have to plan, starting with assessing the cost-benefit ratio. Asking myself how much effort is required and will the payout be worth the exertion—either mentally or physically—as well as anticipating what the fallout will be if I decline an invitation or an opportunity, and how much time I need to budget for recovery (reducing my capacity to earn money, build connections, etc.).
Jennifer Brea described it has having a battery always at 10%. As you can imagine, that requires frequent recharging for minimal output. We all know what it is like when our electronics’ batteries drain faster than our usage—we get frustrated when our technology can’t keep up with the demand. Imagine what it’s like having a body that can’t recharge to sustain usage.
So, we are left with a predicament. How to manage a perpetual low battery while maintaining enough quality of life to counter the depression that is lurking in the corners, ready to pounce and consume us? This is where the work of holocaust survivor, Viktor Frankl, comes in: the idea of suffering well. Pain is unavoidable, but what about suffering? Viktor states: “We had to learn ourselves and, furthermore, we had to teach the despairing men, that it did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us.” (Frankl, p. 77). If I could capture the “moral of the story” from Jennifer Brea’s documentary, it would be these words of Frankl’s. She is bravely learning what life expects of her as well as teaching the despairing fellow-sufferers to grasp onto that same hope/lifeline.
Frankl borrows from German philosopher, Nietzsche, who is known for a few quotable phrases such as “Was mich nicht umbringt macht mich stӓrker.” (That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.); and “He who has a why to live for can bear with almost any how.” (Frankl, p. 82, 104) Frankl expands upon these concepts by saying, “[hu]man’s main concern is not to gain pleasure or to avoid pain but rather to see a meaning in his life” (Frankl, p. 113)–affirming my belief that the Western world is very misguided in their impossible pursuit of happiness. Frankl goes on to say,
“There are situations in which one is cut off from the opportunity to do one’s work or to enjoy one’s life; but what never can be ruled out is the unavoidability of suffering. In accepting this challenge to suffer bravely, life has a meaning up to the last moment, and it retains this meaning literally to the end. In other words, life’s meaning is an unconditional one, for it even includes the potential meaning of unavoidable suffering. (Frankl, p. 114).
Frankl’s concept is reiterated in an emotional regulation workbook: “While we can’t always control the pain in our lives, we can control the amount of suffering we have in response to that pain.” (McKay, Wood, Brantley, p. 9) And at the very beginning of suffering well is the radical acceptance of pain and suffering: it just is. No one escapes it or is exempt from it. So if I can’t avoid it, how can I make the most of it? This is the challenge life presents us. A lifelong work in progress—only ending in death. And some, understandingly, do choose a premature death for very complicated biological, mental, emotional, and social reasons.
So where am I going with all this? I suppose it is my attempt at following the examples of Frankl and Brea: to learn for myself and encourage my despairing fellow-sufferers. Your life, whatever it looks like, counts and matters. It is up to us to choose how to live it/play the cards we are dealt—choose what to do with the Gift of Life—unique to each and every living being.
And so I ask: What makes your life meaningful in all its glory and its limitations?
References:
Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl (2006 edition)
The Dialectical Behavior Therapy Skills Workbook by McKay, Wood, & Brantley (2007)
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