On Being a Guinea Pig (Blog #1061)

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This evening I’ve been thinking about being a guinea pig. What I mean is that’s how I see myself, as a walking experiment. For example, over the last few years I’ve tried a number of things to help with a number of things: body odor, acid reflux, headaches, you name it. And whereas some of the things I’ve tried have been conventional, many of them have not. Not that I’m absolutely sold on home remedies and weird shit (because a lot of it is bogus), but–let’s face it–conventional approaches don’t always get the job done. I can’t tell you the number of college-educated doctors I’ve asked about my issues, yes, to be helped some, but also to only be told, “You’re an enigma” or “You’ve got me there.”

Used to, these sorts of answers would cause me to despair. Like, it’s hopeless. I’m fucked. More and more, I’m not bothered when someone–even a professional–says they don’t know what to do. Why? Because that lets me know THEY’RE not the one I’m looking for, the one with the answer. And I don’t begrudge them for this. After all, it’s good to know where NOT to look (or whom NOT to date), and just because someone doesn’t have every piece of a puzzle doesn’t mean they don’t have a piece of it. Dr. Johan Boswinkel said, “I believe that truth has 144 sides.” To me this means that we can’t expect one person to be able to solve all our problems, whether that one person is a doctor, a therapist, or even us. It takes a village to see the entire picture.

To solve the entire problem.

Along these lines, for example, I’ve made huge strides with sinus infections thanks to a blog I found online. Still, last week I asked my primary care physician about ways to deal with post nasal drip, and next week I have an appointment with the ENT who performed my sinus surgery three years ago (which helped with, well, breathing) to ask them the same question. There was a time in my life I would have only sought out one opinion, but now I just don’t believe that’s enough.

How many opinions are enough? However many it takes to get the answer you want. This is what I mean by being a guinea pig. I’m so determined to heal–whatever that means–that I’m willing to ask almost anyone, to try almost anything. Rather than suffer. I don’t know. There’s just something in me that keeps hoping, keeps insisting that life can be better. Better than it has been. Better than it is. Not that the past and present have been completely awful (all of the time), but I’m convinced there’s something more. Not out there, but in here. Inside of me.

I’m talking about potential.

Fortunately, my keep-hoping, never-quit, good-God-I-need-an-answer-right-now-damn-it-because-I’m-exhausted attitude has started to pay off. Over the last few months my body has begun to heal and to change thanks to upper cervical care. Thanks to the new therapist I’ve started seeing (in addition to my regular therapist and whose methods I intend to discuss more fully soon) and the myofascial release practitioner I mentioned last week, I’ve processed and let go of emotions that have been hidden in my body for decades. Ugh. It’s been said that emotions buried alive never die, and I’ve found this to be true. Just because you stuff something down doesn’t mean it’s not there. Sooner or later, all our feelings must be felt, expressed, and assimilated. Otherwise they’ll simply show up as our neuroses (anxieties, fears, compulsions, addictions) or, perhaps worse, our dis-eases (pains, ailments).

Honestly, my discomforts and diseases over the years have been the main reason I’ve worked so hard to “get better” mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. (I believe you can’t separate the four.) My Reiki teacher says our bodies are our sounding boards, meaning they let us know when something in our life needs attention or is out of balance. Of course, achieving balance is a delicate undertaking and seems to require a lifelong commitment. So be it. Perhaps this is why we’ve been given life in the first place, so that both we as individuals and we as a collective can come to a greater sense of harmony.

Perhaps.

Getting back to the idea that it takes a village, when I think about the healing I’ve experienced over the last few years and even the last few months, I’d like to be clear. As much as I love my therapist and wouldn’t be without her, I also wouldn’t be without this new therapist I’m seeing. Nor would I be without my primary care physician, my ENT, or my myofascial release practitioner. Nor would I be without, well, myself, since I’ve figured out a number of things no one on my “healing team” has been able to. Not that I’m so fabulous. For every piece I’ve figured out, I have dozens of websites, books, and YouTube videos (and their producers) to credit.

So. We’re all in this together.

All this to say that if you’re struggling with something, if you’re looking for answers, if you’re, well, human, hang in there. It’s a big universe (with a big internet), and you’ve got more options now than ever. Granted, there are certain things we’re just “stuck with” for life (and we all have to get off this planet somehow), but more and more I believe our bodies and souls are capable of more than we give them credit for, certainly more than we’ve been led to believe. So keep trying, keep searching. Until you find your Self. Keep being a guinea pig until you find Balance. When it comes to others, especially experts, take them with a grain of salt. They are, after all, only human. No one knows everything. And only you get to say what your potential is.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing was made to last forever.

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The Deepest Waters (Blog #292)

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Today my body has, once again, felt like seven-day-old leftovers–questionable. Like, this could go either way. On the outside, I look fine. (Damn fine, bitch.) But seriously. My face is a little red with histamine (or something), but it’s only noticeable if you stand close and know what you’re looking for. My nose is a bit snotty, but I’m breathing fine–that’s not a problem. But my energy is shit. I keep thinking, I know my body can feel better than this. I just know it. Come on, body, let’s do this. My body’s response to this pep talk?

Crickets.

Proudly, I’ve stayed off the internet. I have, however, been playing around with my vitamin regimen, laying off everything for a few days to see if that makes a difference, adding things back in. And whereas one day’s a little better, one day’s a little worse, outside factors like vitamins and diet don’t seem to make a difference. This is why you have a smart doctor, I keep telling myself. This is her mystery to solve now. Honestly, I’m eager for her to figure things out. I’m not-so-patiently waiting for my blood work to come back and for that referral to the immunologist, who hopefully won’t be booked solid. My doctor said I should hear something soon, but two-thousand years ago Christ said he’d be returning “soon,” so that word obviously means different things to different people.

Even so, Lord Jesus, come quickly.

In addition to feeling wiped out, I’ve also felt weepy today. Everything has brought on tears–YouTube videos, “that one song,” poems by Maya Angelou. Maya Angelou can almost always make me cry. (May she rest in peace.) I don’t know, maybe feeling like the bug on a front of a windshield provides the ideal environment for tears. Like a left-on light at a Motel 6 says to a weary traveler, perhaps a weary body tells grief and sadness, “You’re welcome here.” This is something I’ve been thinking about today, the “benefits” to being sick, the “gift” of getting knocked on your ass and being unable to stand up no matter how hard you try.

I recently read that all inner and spiritual growth begins with the cry, “Help.” This makes a lot of sense to me. When you feel well and everything is going your way, it’s easy to feel invincible, to think you can do everything by yourself. But when the wheels of your life fall off, when you can’t find the brakes, and when all you can do is hold on for dear life, you suddenly find yourself in the land of vulnerability, this scary, tender place with shaky, uneven ground where there’s nothing to hold on to. First you fall, then you fall some more. You can’t see where you’re going. You think, I’m in the dark here.

You think, Help.

My Reiki teacher says there are two types of people in the world. Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t. (Just kidding. That’s what the movie What About Bob? says.) My Reiki teacher says the two types of people are grief people and anger people, meaning that if you’re holding on to something inside, it’s either “a deep sadness” or “a deep rage.” As I understand this theory, healing requires letting go of that thing you can’t let go of. In my case, I’m a grief person. When I think about the injustices in my life and in the world, the waters run long before the fires burn. Not that I never feel anger. I certainly do. But anger, for me, is a shallow well. The Grief Well, however–that’s the one with the deepest waters.

Lately I’ve been wondering just how deep the sadness within me goes. Considering what I’ve lived through, I think, Pretty deep. Considering what my family has lived through, I think, Pretty fucking deep. With this is mind, I’m really trying to be patient with the healing process. Of course, some days, when I cry at the drop of a hat, I think, This again? Haven’t we dealt with this already? I mean, I’ve been in therapy for almost four years. I’ve read more self-help books in the last six months than most people read in a lifetime. I know what my “issues” are. But I’m finding that healing for the mind is very different from healing for the body. The body remembers–it holds on to everything. And whether it’s a deep sadness or a deep rage, your body won’t let go of it until it’s ready, until it’s safe to.

If you think only girls cry, fuck you.

This, I think, is the sweet spot of having done plenty of personal work. A lot of people think crying is something to be ashamed of. As a society, it’s something we hide and apologize for. Granted, it’s not “pretty” like smiling or laughing. And yet we were designed to express all our emotions, not just the socially acceptable ones. We weren’t meant to hold on to any of them. But having done enough of what my friend Elisabeth calls The Hard Work, I can easily say I don’t care what society says. If you think only girls cry or that crying is inappropriate for some reason, fuck you. Some things are too damn heavy to hold on to forever. (Maybe I’m a tad bit of an anger person.) This is the sweet spot I’m talking about, being strong enough to finally let yourself feel weak and vulnerable, being able to stand on shaky ground and watch your world fall apart having full confidence that it will eventually be put back together in a better way, knowing that the deepest waters are the only ones capable of carrying you home.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it's just a single step, it's a really important one.

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this present moment (blog #34)

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Dad just finished taking a shower and getting dressed. The entire house smells like twenty-five-year-old cologne. I’m gagging. Earlier today I decided that I don’t have a sinus infection but do have a cold, and I can only imagine how bad the smell would be if I weren’t congested. He must have slathered the cologne on, maybe taken a bath in it. “You smell like a French whore,” I said. “I’m going to blog about it.”

***

I spent the day coughing and reading a hundred pages in a book by Andrew Solomon called The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression. It’s 445 pages of total text, and it’s not exactly what I would call light reading. But I’ve had it checked out of the library for over a month and I’m determined to finish it.

A couple of months ago, my mom and I watched Andrew’s TED Talk called Depression, the Secret We Share (30 minutes), and we both cried. So I checked out his book from the library, and Mom read it first. Having been clinically depressed for over thirty years, she identified with Andrew and marveled at his ability to put into words many of her dark feelings and difficult experiences. So more than anything else, I’m reading the book to better understand my mom and people like her.

Mom’s depression started shortly after I was born, and I don’t have many memories of her without it. I guess as a kid I didn’t fully understand, but I remember that she had to go away for maybe a year when I was six or seven to live in a hospital in Baltimore. I guess all kids are embarrassed of their parents, but I can remember thinking that my mom seemed different than the other moms. Maybe it was just that she wasn’t able to do as much.

At some point, Mom had to quit her job as a nurse. The depression was too bad. The electric shock treatments affected her memory. From what I can gather, nursing was one of the few things that she really loved about her life, something she was really good at, and I think it’s taken her a long time to come to peace with the loss.

I’ve heard all my life that Mom has a type of depression that never goes away. Her doctor says that it’s like that for a small percentage of people. Some days and some years are better than others, but it’s like she’s never really out of the woods.

When I was in my early twenties, Dad had a heart attack. I remember going to the Van Buren City Park the next day and jogging. I started going to the gym soon after that, subscribing to Men’s Health. Even Dad will admit that the heart attack didn’t scare him into changing his lifestyle. He’s heavier now than he was back then. But it certainly scared me. Looking back, the jogging, the working out, the reading—it was all motivated by fear.

I’ve spent the last fifteen years really digging into health—what it is, how we lose it, how to get it back, how to keep it. It’s taken me down some pretty interesting paths, both traditional and alternative, and I’ve learned a lot. And whereas I thought that it all started with Dad and his heart attack, I’m sure now that it actually started with Mom and her depression.

Over eight years ago, I took a class in Reiki, a hands-on form of healing that originated in Japan. I usually preface any mention of Reiki by saying that it’s really weird, but it seems like things that are weird are becoming more and more mainstream lately. Anyway, my Reiki teacher says that there is a divine intelligence that is capable of healing any illness. Anything is possible.

Frankly, I love this idea, and it actually lines up quite nicely with my Christian heritage. (I can do all things through Christ, God can move mountains, etc.) Still, there’s a big part of me that has a lot of evidence—like Mom’s depression—to the contrary. So it’s something I really struggle with, this idea of whether or not things like pain and sorrow come and go or simply come—and stay.

I think it’s a huge part of the reason that I get so frustrated when I get sick. Every illness feels like it could be permanent. I can handle a sinus infection for a week, but the thought that I’ll have to handle them for the rest of my life is pretty unbearable. Those are the times it feels like everyone else has things that get better, but I’m the exception. Worse, it feels like I’m doing something wrong. Like if there’s a divine intelligence capable of healing, it’s either not willing to, or it must be my fault when things don’t get better.

Last night I started reading a book by Pema Chodron called Comfortable with Uncertainty. I picked it up at an estate sale last weekend in Tulsa because I liked the title and because I’m not. There’s a line in the first chapter that says, “We explore the reality and unpredictability of insecurity and pain, and we try not to push it away. If it takes years, if it takes lifetimes, we let it be as it is.”

Wow.

“We try not to push it away.”

I can’t tell you how hard I try to push pain away, how hard I work to make health a permanent state of being, to make it certain. (A history of chocolate cake and cigarettes notwithstanding.) But clearly, the truth is that it’s uncertain. As Saint Teresa of Avila says, “All things pass away.” (I just got up to take some Claritin and Ibuprofen, and the house STILL SMELLS like a teenage boy who’s discovered Axe Body Spray. So—obviously—some things pass away more quickly than others.)

A few years ago, Mom’s depression started on an upswing. I can remember going out to eat with her in high school or college and her not saying a word. Now she talks and talks and talks some more. (It drives Dad crazy.) She’s still sick, but it’s a remarkable difference. And I think that’s one of the benefits of my being here now. For the longest time, it’s been easy for me to keep Mom’s illness at a distance, to personally run after health and treat someone else’s sickness like something that doesn’t concern me. Looking at it now, that’s because I haven’t been ready to admit just how scared and vulnerable I really feel about it.

So this week my goal is to do my best to lean in, to be more okay with having a cold or a mother with depression, to open up to this present moment rather than trying to push it away. And rather than wishing things were different than they are, I can look for the gift in this present moment—a chance to experience compassion for myself and others, a chance to experience my heart.

[The top photo is of my mother when she was in nursing school. Isn’t she lovely?]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No one is immune from life’s challenges.

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