Progress: the cure for all adversity?

I can’t remember a day in my life before mom’s passing that I wasn’t fighting with everything I had to bring pride back to my family. The race to reclaim my dignity started with my father when I was quite young. Wanting desperately to win his approval, I went to degrading lengths to hear the words, “I’m proud of you, kid.” It took an eighteen- month drug bender on my part and the recovery following that near-death chapter of my life, to finally hear those words before my father passed when I was twenty-eight years old.

After losing dad, my brother and I pressed forward. Even with broken hearts, we were determined to change the legacy of our family. For a decade, my brother thrived in his career and with his family. In that time, I continued to search for the path that was meant for me. (I’ve never been good with directions.) While I looked for a new goal to surpass that of maintaining sobriety, my brother and mother became my biggest source of validation. I wanted to emulate the best parts of who they were.

Nothing made what my brother had to offer this world more real and present than his sudden passing in August. In an instant, the future I had created in my mind of us raising healthy, happy families together, was erased. More than that, my guiding light for all major decisions in my life was gone. Who would I turn to for answers now?

For eight months following the devastating blow of losing my brother, it was just myself and mom. Not only was mom in end-stage liver failure, but she was rocked to the core from the loss of her son. Taking care of mom and pouring every ounce of my love into her for the time I had left with her became my new mission. My new sense of pride to hold onto, if you will.

There was nothing prideful about those final months with mom. Mom’s final weeks and the torturous pain she endured during her final days will stay with me for the rest of my life. Witnessing my mother choke for each breath, as she slowly drowned in her own fluids was the only thing that made it bearable to let her go home to God. I never would have told her this, but I was more terrified than I had ever been of anything to be left here alone without my family.

When mom took her last breath, finally released from her agony in this world, I sobbed over her until the coroner came to get her. It was not until I left that building, and a new day began, that I realized how profoundly my life had changed.

I haven’t cried a single tear since I walked out of mom’s facility that day. That fact allows for no accuracy on measurement of the depth of my loss. I lose count pretty early-on in the day of how many times I feel the urge to pick up the phone and dial the phone numbers of my late family members. Sometimes I want to tell them about something interesting that happened in my day. Other times, I just want to hear them laugh again. On Memorial Day weekend, I was near-tears, just wanting to have a simple burger with my brother.

When that inner-longing that never seems to let go subsides some, I try to see what the best version of me looks like today. She’s often exhausted, achy all over and a touch jittery. What I have learned about me is that this ache I experience inside can often be relieved by progress. Working towards my degree, gardening and caring for my animals are all examples of ways that I can make myself proud; even when I feel like there is no one watching like there was before.

My progress in the face of so much adversity may look like that of some kind of recovery warrior from the outside looking in. For me, it’s about leaving each situation, and eventually, this world, in a way I can live with myself for in the end. The way I see it, we only really answer to two people in our lives: ourselves and God. Who do you aim to inspire pride in?

Sounding off-the cringe-worthy

Photo taken three days before brain surgery

Recently it was brought to my attention by a concerned, well-meaning friend that I may have taken a prolonged trip to negative-town. Noting that I haven’t been myself lately, she was growing increasingly concerned that I would sink into a depression that I would have a hard time coming back from. It was my pride that responded to her initially, reminding her in no uncertain terms of all I have gotten Up off the Mat from already in just three short years.

For new readers, the hurdles I have fought my way back from include: brain surgery, the passing of my long-time best friend, the untimely passing of my only sibling and most recently; caring for my mother as she endures terminal illness on hospice. I made an agreement with myself long ago that I was going to come back from these adversities in a way that I would like myself for. More than that, my ultimate goal was to face fear in a way that would help others get Up Off the Matt as well.

Part of that has been just plain getting up again after I “fell.” When I had brain surgery, I fought my way back with a tenacity that made my caretakers frustrated and at times, nervous. (No one wants to see someone in recovery from brain surgery hiking the rocky driveway everyday, but I was determined to get stronger.) When my best friend passed away from an overdose, I finally began tackling my goal of starting college to become a substance abuse counselor. I put that goal on fast-forward by participating in public speaking engagements on the topic of addiction. When my beloved brother passed, I started a new semester at college two weeks later and earned Dean’s List. I began my current semester with my mother on hospice. For me, it is all about progress in spite of everything that threatens to hinder it.

With each challenge life threw at me, both the reader and the writer in me were inspired. First, I would set to Google and see what I could learn about each topic. Knowing all I can about what I am facing helps ease my mind. It gives me a sense of control when I feel like I have an idea of what to expect in the days to come. What I found with each topic was that there was plenty of information out there in medical-speak. There are copious amounts of medical articles written by doctor’s and psychiatrists that will educate you on grief, terminal illness and even on craniotomies. (Don’t google that one, you can’t unsee that.)

For me, what was lacking was personal accounts of what it felt like for someone who was actually going through a major illness or loss. What could I expect from that point of view? Was what I was feeling normal? Would I be okay again? Finally, I wanted those who were maybe just starting their trip down “negative-town-lane” to see that I made it. I got Up off the Matt. Every. Single. Time.

That’s not to say that I didn’t get knocked out more times than I can count at this point. There were times I even laid there for a while, flailing and kicking; resisting the fall. Heck, there were even times I had to be rolled out on a stretcher. Guess what I did when I woke up from that much needed nap? I got up and I walked out of that place. Chin down, hands up, ready for the next round.

That’s really what Up off the Mat is all about. I know I’m not the only one who has been knocked down by life repeatedly. My mission is to be a witness to those stories, I know they are out there. Speak on them. Tell your stories loudly, no matter how they may make people cringe or hurt for you. Then you show them. You show them that you may fall down a time or two but you will never, ever, tap out.

Reaching vs. Retreating

She messaged me to check in. I responded right away, telling her I had been sick with the flu. This was my way of apologizing for my lack of communication recently. At this point I still thought it was my lack of presence that was the problem. Admittedly, I had been absent from many of my regularly scheduled activities for several weeks. More than that, I hadn’t seen much of my friends or family, either.

I told myself and those who asked that my state of near-isolation could be boiled down to feeling under the weather. That response seemed to get me by until she didn’t respond how I had expected her to. For whatever reason, I had anticipated the generic “feel better soon” message back. Surely at that point, I could continue my isolation in peace. She had other ideas as she saw through my short responses.

My phone rang with another text. “Have you reached out to your fellow Pranic Healers for healing?”

I knew already she had known the answer to this question before asking. The short answer was no but I knew that wasn’t going to suffice. Instead I opted for a weak attempt at humor with, “I hadn’t thought of that…” I hadn’t thought of that. She proceeded to connect me with a fellow Pranic Healer who was glad to offer me relief.

It should be noted that I myself am a level four Pranic Healer. I could write numerous blogs about the rapid healing I have experienced through Pranic Healing and Twin Hearts Meditation but that is not what this is about. I knew that the Healer that this friend put me in touch with would likely connect me with much relief from healings I have experienced over the course of five years. The question was, why hadn’t I asked? I am glad to offer healing to others who are suffering and have done so on many occasions. It was not until my friend asked me why I had not reached out for healing for myself that I realized that I could count on one hand the times I had asked for help.

I went into the healing session with this question at the top of my mind. When my friend had asked me why I hadn’t reached out, the question had hit me in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t feel I had wronged her or the practice of Pranic Healing that I had grown to love so much; I felt I had been shorting myself. The healer she linked me with provided healing, then reached out to see how I was feeling. I thanked her for the session and explained that regrettably, I had not experienced much relief with my symptoms. Sleep still eluded me, my sinuses were still a mess but mostly, I still didn’t want to face the world.

It was then that the Healer hit me with it. She asked the question I did not know I had been waiting to hear. “What exactly is going on?” Such a direct question. Later I found myself trying to remember the last time someone had been so specific when asking about my well-being. I gave in a little, telling her that I had been sickly, had begun a new semester at college and that my mother was on hospice. She side-stepped the invisible wall I had just put up and probed further.

What followed was an unleashing of a cascade of emotions I had been carrying intractably on my own for months. Suddenly, for an oddly blissful moment in time, I was able to say the unsayable about the realities I am and have been, shouldering. The conversation started with me saying, “these are the things I cannot say,” and ended with me saying just those things. How liberating it was to tell her what it feels like to start a new semester without my only sibling, while caring for my mother who has been on hospice since December. I was overwhelmed by how much lighter these things felt with someone to bare witness to them. Acknowledging these truths had once felt like an indulgence, a betrayal to the strength I have become known for. In this moment, speaking them out loud liberated me.

The weight we carry in our lives threatens to become a part of us that we carry for longer and in more solitude than is necessary. No matter how heavy or awkward the load we bare is, life and the responsibilities that come with it continue to nag at us like a pack of toddlers that missed both snack and nap time. If you can picture that scene, you can begin to picture what those who are grieving, in the process of losing a loved one, or recovering from trauma endure as they face each day. Do not get caught up in the illusion that they must not need help if they appear to be managing all that they have on their plate. Lot’s of us have a great game face.

I was unable to locate my game face the day my friend reached out to me. Because of this, I had retreated to an isolated state, trying to decide which weight in my life was most important to pick up next. Fortunately for me, both my friend and the healer were willing to reach more than halfway to help me figure out how to rise again, carrying a bit less weight this time. Some days we are the healer. On such days, we should reach out to both the weak and to the strong. Other days, we require healing. On those days, may we be strong enough to reach out for healing.

**To learn more about Pranic Healing go to: http://www.pranichealing4me.com