I’m in a house I don’t know. My husband lies beside me, surrendered to the idyllic dreamscape his mind has constructed. He is unaware that I am anxiously staring at his slack face. Can he feel my eyes boring into him? Can he sense the desperation beaming from my eyes, from my heart? I slide out of bed, admitting that the pills did not take hold tonight. The monster taps me on the shoulder, I turn around slowly, catching sight of his satisfied smile. He’s got me, and he knows it. I pace around the bedroom. He keeps stride with me, his footsteps seemingly a part of my own body, falling at the same time as mine. I move right, he moves right. The monster is inescapable, he is within. The pulsing a manifestation of his breath, the pounding a stark indication he is stirring and won’t be denied.
The pacing and pulsing make me weary which makes me hopeful. Weary may mean my body can find sleep. I steal back into bed, a prayer in my heart, a wish in my mind, and ease myself onto my pillow. For a brief moment, the pulsing subsides. A torrent of gratitude warms my body, I may receive sleep after all! I lay on the pillow, hoping the monster has subsided, that he won’t find me lying here, won’t know how much I need the escape of sleep. I should know better, my thoughts are his, his thoughts are mine. He takes a deep breath and laughs. Laughs so hard that the pulsing makes me dizzy. I jolt up, all my best laid plans for tomorrow will have to wait, because sleep is not mine to have tonight.
Sometime in the desperate reaches of the early morning I drop into a fitful, dreamless sleep that does little to relieve the hours I missed. My husband kindly sneaks out of the bedroom, takes my kids on the day’s planned adventures. After they have been gone for a few hours, I stumble groggily out of bed. Feeling excluded, feeling frustrated and so hopeless. I must not have fulfilled my do’s and don’ts properly yesterday. It’s my fault. I’ve done something to deserve this.
As I’m sitting on the couch, contemplating my every move yesterday, the front door flies open and my kids stream in, excitement radiating from their sun-kissed bodies, the latest adventure pouring from their lips. I want to be happy for them, I’m so glad my husband, their amazing father, will take them out for their fun even if I can’t pull myself together enough to accompany them. They describe the hike, the water, skipping rocks, the sun. Each depiction a blow to my tender heart, knowing I missed those memories. They don’t know why I wasn’t there. They don’t know about the monster. I vow to do better. More pills, more do’s and don’ts, whatever it takes. This must be my fault.
My young eyes look to my mom, always there holding things together. Dad can’t come, again. He had a bad night and had food come up. I’ve heard it before but don’t really understand what it means. Don’t know why he doesn’t feel well enough to join the family out to dinner. He should be here. There’s so many times that he should be here, but he isn’t because he is unwell.
As a child, I didn’t understand why he was so unwell, why he often was held back by his illness. Now, experiencing similar setbacks is heart breaking. It’s a generational trauma that runs through my veins, blunting my memories, reminding me that I must navigate the inevitable land mines lying before me. His body rebelled, mine is too. Our pedigree slamming a trap around my mind, severing my thoughts from even considering there might be healing available.
Without knowledge and proper insight, superstitions are allowed to flourish. Their calculated command reigning supreme in a suffering life, stealing joy and freedom. I have mentioned my growing list of do’s and don’ts before. In the midst of this suffering, before I had the opportunity to connect with trained resources, I relied solely on my experiences, learning that this minute ingredient made me sick, staying up past this time denied me sleep at all, a certain behavior would prevent my mind from settling. Although there is truth to each of these limitations, I became obsessed in all the wrong ways. Not fully being able to attribute the lack of sleep, the lack of energy to one certain thing, these restrictions and false rules stacked up, demanding constant vigilance and obedience. Quiet moments were filled with check lists and self-doubt. Filled with a wary exhaustion moving through my day, making sure each rule was fulfilled. Ultimately, the not knowing, the lack of understanding and being able to attribute an outcome to a certain behavior transformed into self-doubt and finding fault in myself. Assuming whatever I was doing, despite trying so hard, was not right, not enough. My superstitions were never going to provide me relief. Though I had the power to help or hurt my cause, my problems ran deeper than I knew how to fix and blaming myself, finding fault in my desperations, was only causing more pain to an already rung out body.
Fast forward years later, having explored available solutions, leaning on those more versed in health and the human body than I. I trusted so many, and despite their best efforts, unfortunately, I continued to struggle to find true relief. But then I did. It was a cobbling together of several mending modalities and having the opportunity to connect with a healer, him having made this his life’s work. I see you, you warriors out there. Desperate to heal, to find the remedy that will release you from the suffering. Keep going. Trust your gut and please, please afford yourself mountains of grace. You deserve all of it.
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