The Heartache of Terror

One of the symptoms of my illness is terror. Absolute panic as if you had just gotten missed being hit by a racing car, or the dog was coming at you with teeth bared but then a leash pulled him back a foot away from your arm. And you stand there shaking because you can't believe you are unharmed.

I wake up like this almost every morning, shaking and teary-eyed, and these attacks come on suddenly throughout the day. They are triggered by exertion, by the smallest amount of stress, and if I have any unfinished business emotionally or mentally the despair and sobbing set in for minutes or hours. I crumple to the floor in tears. My limbs are shaking. My hands and jaw shake.

The observer in me says, "You have got to calm this down. You're body can't heal with this much fear running through your veins." Sometimes I find I'm too weak to do it alone and I'm on my knees at the edge of my coffee table, head on my clasped hands, pleading to God or whoever is listening to hold me and make the fear go away. I can't tell you why the dread is so profound but it is.

Lately, my avenue to helping myself has been to ask myself if there is something I can do about whatever is distressing me? Even if I'm so weak I can't take the garbage out or do the dishes, is there still something I can do in the world to release myself?

Sometimes the answer is yes -- go breathe. go sit and breathe and count the seconds. Sometimes it's go listen to a guided meditation and let the voice lull you to sleep for 20 minutes. Sometimes, it's go eat something.  Sometimes, it's call Betsy and see if there is a remedy I can take.

Two days ago it was go call your soul coach and lay it on the line and she says go write a letter. Go tell him the whole truth and be kind to yourself. And so I did, and then I slept on it without sending it. The next day I spent much of the day editing and it calmed me down. By evening, I felt the panic setting in. The letter was done and I was ready to hit the send button and the panic just flooded me. What is it, I asked myself, that is in me that has wanted to hold onto this much internal distress for five years? Considering this rocked me to my core. And the next question: who will I be without this heavy weight that I've used to beat myself up for the past five years? What will I do with my freedom?

I hit send. And I sat there.

Today I feel blank and too tired to even acknowledge the incredible gift I've given to myself. By sending that email all of the past baggage of my life -- that I'm aware of -- is complete. That was the last big thing. Now I have nothing but the present moment. Yes, I would imagine there is residual trauma I'm still carrying from things I'm not aware of, but I have done my work.

And so it's frustrating tonight to find myself shaking and rocking myself back and forth on the couch, in a panic with no life-story reason. It's just panic, like aftershocks. And like all the other times, I find my left hand is pushing on my heart, holding my heart. And I just keep sobbing.

I want this illness to be cleared so badly. I want to feel better. How long can my body withstand trauma before it's too weak to keep going? Why am I not improving? I believe everything I'm doing is good and part of my healing but why have I felt the same way for so long now?

Nothing lasts forever and that brings me comfort. I am impatient tonight to know which way this illness is gonna break, and when. I have done so much good for my life in these last 7 weeks so I have gratitude. Now I just want enough peace to sleep well and feel calm in my skin, and wake up tomorrow like everything's alright.

Returning to Old Friends

When I get anxious I find myself returning to the books and images of my youth that made me feel at home. Today I started rereading "The Sheltering Sky" by one of my favorite authors, Paul Bowles. I found this passage fitting to the imagery of painter Janet Fish, one of my inspirations when I was studying fine art in college.

“One never took the time to savour the details; one said: another day, but always with the hidden knowledge that each day was unique and fatal, that there never would be a return, another time.”   

- Paul Bowles

Fish's attention to detail, the way she bathes domestic abundance in light, is so alive and joyful and absent of dissonance. By contrast, Paul Bowles recognizes the fatality of each moment and in doing so he honors how sublime everything is. It's beautiful, stark, haunted. I think I gravitated to both creators for helping me recognizing my yes to life.

Living by Heart and Body

I have been experiencing illness again, a deep and uncertain illness that has brought me face to face with my mortality and the messages of my heart.

What I have discovered is that my heart wants simple things. She wants to be, and experience, and live. I have visions of places where I want to go, things I want to see and smell, and one person that I want to sit beside again. He is someone I've never been able to talk to about my feelings because I was afraid of my heart.

As my symptoms cycle around, I have come to trust my connection to the divine in my body. I know I live in the heart of God. I have sobbed in gratitude from this knowing, and in grief for the years it has taken me to fully understand. I have come to recognize that the heart doesn't ask you to be perfectly ready or have things perfectly positioned before you live. You live now. You live from your heart the moment you understand what she is revealing to you, and you experience it through your body. There is nothing to fear.

And so I have been taking my medicine and stretching and resting, and also quitting things that don't fit. I have written to the man I want to sit beside and shared how it's been. He wrote a short, direct, warm response and it's like we skipped a few steps, backed into the corner of potential loss. There is love that lives between us, in some fashion.

I said to myself, "Oh, so this is how it is. This is how it's going to be."

Living from the heart is not peak experiences or butterflies. It is being Home, in perfect contentment. It is deep peace. I did not know that.

I am not sure how I will endure the months and months of uncertainty until I can see him, but I know it is not about waiting; it is about living. I get to wake up every morning and take my medicine, and stretch and rest, and feel an overwhelmingly peaceful love in my whole body that brings me to tears. I get to do things every day that bring me Home, knowing that the day when I get to sit beside this man will be all the sweeter for it. Life will be like water.

Living, true living, is only encountered through the heart and body. May I -- and all of us -- live our stories through exquisite taste, touch, smell, and tenderness. When I recover, I intend to continue this new chapter with everything in me, with my hands and my laughter. I will be able to say I have lived.