Secret

Everyone has bad habits they can’t kick.  Smoking, nail biting, swearing, you name it someone does it relentlessly. The question is how do we stop?  How do we stop feeding the monsters that plague us? And why do they plague us in the first place?  The simple answer is that they are coping mechanisms. In my case, I've had many bad ones and have kicked just about all of them.  All but one.

The beauty of my habit is that no one ever sees it.  My habits no longer manifest themselves in physical ways.  There are no more bloody fingertips from constant nail biting, or scabs from scratching and picking my blemishes.  No, my habit is my dirty little secret.  Well, until now.

No one that knows me socially or on the surface would understand.  Or even be aware.  Hell, some people might even be flat out shocked.  The few people that know me intimately, my husband, my absolute closest of friends, they know.  I’m sure they don’t understand it fully, but they know.  I've managed to let those few people close enough to me to really see the damage.  Funny enough they still talk to me and seem to still want to be in my life.  And even though I constantly question it, I try to accept their friendship and love the best I can.

One of my dearest friends always tells me to I have to learn to accept myself.  As I am.  And as I have grown older I am continuously learning to do that.  I can accept all the parts of who I am good, bad, or indifferent.  But accepting myself and liking myself are two entirely different things.

I don’t know when it began.  I just remember it being there as long as I've had a memory.  This comfortable fall back habit I have.  My old faithful, my comfort zone.  The thing I can’t seem to give up, even as I evolve as a woman and come through the roughest of days.  It grips me and has me convinced of it.  It is my self-loathing.

Ok, let’s just say it now.  I sound insane and in need of mental help.  I assure you, however I am not insane.  I am very sane in fact.  I just don’t like myself very much.  I am sure if there were ever a couch to have me examined on, the doc would most likely have a field day cracking the inner thoughts of this skull of mine.  Now I am not suicidal and I have no desire to bring harm to myself.  I just find that in certain times of difficulty it is easier and much more logical to take the blame for the negativity in the situation and turn in completely inward.  I can go from zero to 100 in ten seconds flat.  I can throw my mind down a spiraling black hole of self-deprecation, doubt, and disgust.   I can find fault in every ounce of my being, believing the things and situations that are unpleasant would cease to exist if I were not involved with them.  I constantly think I am a terrible burden on my husband and sometimes my friends. 

And I have decided to write about it to own it. 

I am not looking for sympathy nor is there a need to inundate me with texts and phone calls.  I am fine.  Really, I am fine.  But I do know its not the norm and most people will think I am coo coo for cocoa puffs after reading this (if they don’t already).  This blog has allowed me to explore my recovery, my triumphs and my evolution.  It would be a farce to also not be honest about the things that are dark and not so warm and fuzzy.  When I began writing this blog just about a year ago this week, I promised anyone who read this 100% honestly.  Not just the funny and triumphant honesty, but the uncomfortable and embarrassing honesty as well.

So here it is.  I have never learned to like myself.

I don’t know why.  I just don’t. 

As I am now three years healthy I have to be truthful with myself.  If I want to move forward in my life and continue personal evolution I have to own this, explore this, and at the very least no longer be embarrassed about it.  I've spent a very long time trying to compensate for all the things I think I lack.  And it’s only made me feel worse about myself as I sit here thinking about how I really should be six feet under now.   The days I wonder why I didn't die in that hospital bed haunt me.  Why was that second chance given to me?  What am I supposed to do with it? 

I can’t explain when or how this frame of mind happened.  It just did.  I’m sure some would speculate about my parents dying when I was young or the distance between me and my other family.  How I have always been a loner at heart and spent much of my young life in sink or swim mode…. Yada, yada, yada.  I don’t look for reasons to justify it; I just accept it as my truth. 

I realize that this point of view towards myself isn't healthy and it’s not really appealing.  Well that’s totally fine.  I’m not trying to win any popularity contests.  I’m simply trying to accept myself and embrace my flaws.  There are oh so many of them.  This is simply one.  I don’t like myself. I can be confident in my intellect and the other strong qualities I possess, and can rile up a room because I am funny as hell.  I just can’t find enough kindness to love myself the way the healthiest of people do.  I focus on my flaws and give little credence to the good in me. 

I am loud, brash, blunt, and in my younger days, I was simply obnoxious.  I have matured out of the obnoxious but still have a big mouth.  And sometimes the inner censor, often fueled by my ever-short temper, gets turned off.  I am horribly impatient and can be ridiculously selfish. I can also be kind, compassionate, and I have the ability to empathize with anyone. But that is not the part of me most people see.

This old habit has been haunting me lately.  Between stress at work, a stifled and cracked marriage, and a broken foot that has kept me from anything physically productive or empowering I am left with my thoughts.  And folks, they aren't great. LOL I am fighting the urge to hide and sequester myself.  My instinct is to retreat.  I want to shutout everyone and isolate myself from the world so I can wallow in this pool of self-hatred.  But I’m not.  I’m doing the ridiculously insane opposite.  I am shouting from the rooftops how fucking horrible I feel.  In doing that at least, I am honoring this air I still have the privilege to breathe. 

And for me that is continued evolution.

Interrupted

The weekend before Thanksgiving I broke my foot.  It was stupid and I should not have been so careless but I was.  I fell on a friend’s bathroom floor in the middle of the night.  I landed so hard I fractured my second tarsal in two places and chipped a small bone under the ball of my foot.  I didn’t even think I hurt anything other than my ass, which I bounced off of, when I went back to bed. 

Even though I could barely put any weight on it then next morning, I still managed to enjoy my weekend and truck my ass all over Heinz Field for a Steelers game that Sunday.  I was not going to miss a live game because my foot hurt.  Then of course I drove the three hours home right after the game.  I certainly am paying the price for my stubbornness. Although I had it wrapped in an ace bandage, I should have stayed off of it.   

When I woke up Monday morning it was a bruised ball of flesh.  It looked awful.  I broke down and went to a local urgent care center to have x-rays done.  They confirmed the breaks and wanted to put me on crutches.  To which I responded, “Um, no.  I have to walk so give me a plan B”.  They offered me a walking boot, which I didn’t love but was a much better alternate to crutches.  I could walk freely on the boot and it absorbed shock so I could put weight on my foot to be mobile.  Of course it was my right foot so driving home was a feat.  Haha, a feat, get it?  Anyhow I as given a referral to an orthopedic doc and prayed that I was going to heal without any other issues. 

The ortho told me I needed to wear the boot for three more weeks (I had been wearing it about a week when he saw me), then I could wean off it slowly.  Which I did.  I had to go back in four weeks for follow up x-rays.  Which I did.  On my follow up visit he told me that I was ok to walk and drive ONLY. No exercise, no running, and no strain other than normal movement until I had SEVEN COMPLETELY PAIN FREE DAYS.  He said it should take another month or so to get to that point, so I was looking at end of January beginning of February.  I was relieved.

Being the impatient fuck that I am, two weeks ago my foot was feeling pretty good.  I had four really normal days.  Four not seven.  Yes, you know its coming.  I decided to hit the gym and try a little light cardio.  I had begun doing some upper body weight training a week earlier because I was going stir crazy without any exercise whatsoever.  I went about five weeks or so doing nothing and it was really getting to me. 

There is this wonderful machine that I have come to love at the gym.  It’s the Helix 3000.  It’s an elliptical type machine but pedals in a large circular motion from side to side rather than front to back.  I swear I can feel my hips and ass shrinking every time I am on it!  I love it.  It’s was a bit awkward at first, and a lot of people at the gym won’t get on it because either they think they look funny (which I am sure I do but I could care less), or they are afraid they lack the coordination to make a go of it.   My foot felt great and the Helix was calling me.  So I jumped on and told myself I’d give it five minutes.

Five minutes was all I could bear.  By minute three my foot began to tweak with a slight ache.  I pushed through the last two minutes to just get a warm up in.  When I stepped off the ball of my foot was throbbing, as was the top.  I figured I wasn’t ready and then went on to do my upper body workout.  I was limping by the time I left. 

So I figure that little stunt on the Helix put my recovery back about two weeks.  I feel pretty ok now but I am still not 100% in the foot.  I have soreness and every so often I move and it hurts, so I have to wait.

This is the first time since my recovery that I have been injured or hindered in any way physically.  And I clearly hate it.  The routine I have become accustomed to is not what I am able to do at the moment and its bothering the hell out of me.  I miss running. I desperately miss yoga.  And I miss my Helix 3000.  I am still doing weights and meditating to get through my mental anguish about being stifled but it’s not the same as balls to the wall running. Or stretching my body into a yoga pose that requires all my strength and fortitude.  But I remind myself to be thankful for what I CAN do and shut the fuck up about the rest.

The other thing that I am unable to do is wear heels.  High-heeled shoes.  How I miss my shoes!  I am relinquished to flat, sensible shoes for work and any other daily activity.  When I am home I am in bare feet as always, but man I love shoes.  Anyone who has met me knows this.  Luckily I have a very comfy, stylish, and, yes flat, pair of Coach fuzzy boots I bought myself for Christmas.  They are black (as is 85% of what I own) and have become my staple for work.  If it were warmer I’d have a slightly better selection of footwear for work that were “flat” but with winter not so much.

As is everything with me these days, dealing with this injury is a learning experience.  I am reminding myself constantly that this is a temporary injury and it could be much worse. I remind myself that almost three years ago at this time I was getting to ready to experience trauma I could never have imagined. So a broken foot isn’t such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. 

So I am impatiently waiting for the day to go for a run then put on a pair of four-inch heels for work. 

Choice

The holiday season is now upon us and people are making all kinds of choices; what gifts to buy for Christmas, where to go, what to prepare, how they should medicate to handle family.  All kinds of fun stuff to think about. 

I however, this holiday, am not making any decisions of that sort. The ones I must make are much larger and much more significant than those.  I have reached a crossroads in my life that cannot be ignored.  The dynamic of my existence has been altered, and yes much of it was my doing, but I am no longer in a place of contentment.  I am not able to continue the progression of self that I was reveling in after my recovery.  I have allowed myself to become stunted.  And although I have been able to work through some of this in my head while managing the chaos of my thoughts through exercise and work, I am currently nursing a broken foot and am unable to be active.  So I think.  I lament.  Which has brought me back to my writing, (this blog), where I can spew my feelings and thoughts out because I can no longer keep them in.  Writing is my outlet.  It is sometimes my last resort because putting things on paper makes them more real and that sometimes can be really fucking scary. 

I took time last night to read through my prior blog entries.  Like before much of that already published prose, I was terrified of facing those truths, writing them down, making them real.  But after reading through them I clearly remember how good and clear I felt letting all that go. Flowing out of me onto the page without a care. Embracing the truth about myself while evolving into the woman I am continually becoming. So here I am back at my computer bearing my soul for the entire world or no one at all to see.

I have been with my husband, Keane, for fifteen years.  Together almost eight prior to marriage, and married for seven thus far.  I married the kindest and most intelligent person I know.  Both are qualities to be revered and admired in a person, especially the kindness part.  We, like all people, have had good times and bad.  It feels we’ve lived a lifetime of experiences together already and we are only 38 and 42 years old, respectively.  No matter what was bothering us or what issue plagued us, we focused on the good.  We talked about our issues and didn’t hide from or tuck away our problems. Some of them we could just never find any solid resolution.  We sometimes overcompensated for what lacked, but what was lacking wasn’t too terrible in most instances, as everything else was so right, so good. 

Sometimes things change.  I say things because I don’t believe people change.  People either reveal who they really are over time or simply become tired of hiding their true selves.  Events can trigger responses or reactions that reveal things about a person.  I know it did me.  My stroke revealed a lot about me to myself and how much I was loved.  It also showed me that hell is most definitely paved with the best and most loving of intentions.

I am an emotionally reactionary person. I am proactive in my work, my life, my tasks.  But emotionally I am reactionary.  I don’t always stop to process how something has affected me before I respond to it.  Which I can tell you, with the utmost of certainty, isn’t always a good approach.   When I was given a “clean” bill of health and had been deemed recovered and healthy by my neurologist after this ridiculous medical ordeal, I was looking to celebrate.  I wanted to live my life not plan to live it.  I no longer wanted an existence of delayed gratification or extreme discipline. I wanted to be free to have experiences and enjoy the second chance to breathe I had been given.  This attitude did not mesh well with that of Keane who was all about sticking to our extremely difficult and rigid dietary and supplement-required regimen. 

Keane made it his job to take care of me.  He was steadfast in doing so every step of my recovery.  I know that I would not have recovered as quickly or perhaps as completely without him.  I had the will and the strength to live beyond what was happening to me, but Keane always provided the safest and most loving environment for me to heal.  I always felt safe and never worried during my recovery.  I knew everything in our world was being taken care of, especially me.  So, when I came to the point where I no longer was the patient, I had expectations that the nursing and the monitoring would stop.  It was no longer needed. I was healthy.  I had survived and was becoming stronger than ever.  What I did not realize was that Keane had not lived through my stroke.  He was still in the trauma of it.  There was aftermath for him.  And I did not consider it. 

I was wrapped up and enamored with my recovery.  I was running and exercising, becoming stronger with my yoga practice and reconnecting with the people in my life that really knew me. There was even a brief time where Keane and I had seemed to reveal a newfound connection.  Unfortunately that connection was fleeting. Over time we had nurtured a vicious cycle of him trying to take care of me and keep me safe and me running as far into the fast lane as I could.   The more I wanted to live the more Keane tried to pin me down to keep me safe.  The more he tried to protect me from the things that could harm me, the more I wanted to rebel.  It was like a teenage girl defying her father for the thrill of it.  I told myself it was a phase we were going through, just two different approaches to the second chance I had.  I kept running in my own direction and he kept trying to dictate my being.  It was trying.  It was aggravating.  It was stressful.  And it was disastrous. 

Being a bit removed of this dynamic for a few months now, I can see how insensitive I was to Keane’s fears and worries.  And he can now see how he was a bit mental over wanting to oversee every particle I ingested and every activity I took part in.  I know that all of his efforts, no matter how maddening to me at the time, were out of love and concern for my well being.  I also know they were out of fear.  I forget that he almost lost me.  And I often neglected to remind myself that there would have been an affect on others had I died.  Hell I would be dead.  As far as I know there is nothing after that. You just cease to exist.  Yet it is not the dead that concern itself with death, but the living left behind.   I almost left him behind.  I came terrifyingly close to leaving him behind.  And I forgot that.  Hell I didn't even think about it. 

I always told people, “I had the stroke but it happened to Keane”.  He had to live with it.  Deal with it all day in and day out for months on end.  I know that.  Somehow I didn't stop to think of the mental and emotional toll it was taking on him.  The trauma he experienced watching me cheat death, especially when I wasn't supposed to.  I was too busy wanting to find normalcy in my body while trying to embark on adventures and have fun with my friends.  I wanted freedom and experiences, not parented, policed or scrutinized at every turn.   We both had very different perspectives on how we should live and behave after the stroke.   We went in opposite directions.  We were chasing our own agendas so long that we became completely disconnected in every way.

So much that I approached him about ending our marriage.

That was almost four months ago.

Now we are in what Keane calls “purgatory”.  And that is exactly what it is. We are still married and still living our life together. But we continue to be painfully disconnected.  Some days I can’t stand the thought of life without him, others I simply can’t stand the sight of him.  I suspect he has similar feelings towards me, although he has never said as much.  

We are both on our own path of self-discovery.  The more I see myself for who I really am and the adventure I want my life to be, the more I question everything about the life I am currently living.  Keane no longer reacts to me in the fevered panic he used to.  I no longer find excuses to get away.  We are both present in where we are and are navigating how we feel.

Like most things I explore in this blog, this is not public knowledge.  Until now.  Only a few close intimate friends and Keane’s family know where we are in this place of limbo we are choosing to live in at the moment.  But we can’t be like this forever.  It’s not fair or pleasant for either of us.  A conscious choice has to be made.   I just hope whatever is decided, is best for us both.  Deep down I know that choice is mine to make…

Forgiveness

I’ve held a lot of resentment in my life.  My soul has been tainted by the piss and vinegar I’d harbored about the people and things in my younger life.  I was angered at the difficulty in gaining love and acceptance from my own flesh and blood.  Other than my parents, my family ties wore thin at a young age.

Of all the people in my life, the relationship I have with my sister, Lisa, is the toughest.  We had periods when I felt close to her, but they were quickly overshadowed by the generation gap and the opposing views she and I had about our family and our lives.  It often felt as if Lisa spent a lifetime shattering me.  She was mean.  She has an intellect beyond measure, as she spent her life in the realm of science.  She was a chemist, and a damn good one.  Her brilliant mind allowed her to solve all kinds of chemical equations and questions, but it also provided her with the ability to cut someone down with the swipe of her tongue.  And that someone was usually me.

I haven’t written in a few months because time had gotten the best of me.  Days ran into one another and life just moved on quickly.  My mind has been working overtime lately and it is, in part, because of Lisa.  She will be 55 years old tomorrow and is dying of cancer. 

Lisa lives far away from me and I am torn about whether I want to see her before she dies.  She is in pretty bad shape and I have no idea on her prognosis.  She could live another month or another two years.  What I do know is I haven’t seen her in a decade and I am not yet sure if I have truly come to terms with the emotional battle scars she left on me.  I am not writing to rant about what a horrible person my sister is.  I am writing because I don’t know what else to do.  My husband thinks I should stay away and just talk to her on the phone, as I have been every few weeks.  I can no longer comprehend most of what she says, as it is clear she is in a deep medicinal haze. 

I have spent many months on the fence about visiting Lisa.  And I have rarely spoken about the volatility of our relationship.  Other than the few lucky folks who got to witness her relentlessness towards me first hand, it’s not something I casually chat about over a beer. I have always tried to do the right thing when it came to family. To be the better person, to be the obedient child and dutiful sister.  I reached out a lot as an adolescent often to be ignored or disregarded.  Lisa always had a venomous way about her when she interacted with me.  Some people said she was jealous of me. I don’t know what about.  My only guess is that my birth took our father’s attention away from her, and he spent the last few precious years of his life attending to me.  Trying to get to know me and leave some imprint on my life.  Which he did.  Looking back I’m sure dad knew he wasn’t going to see me grow up.  Yet I’m sure he didn’t realize Lisa wasn’t ready to let him go before his time either.

So here I sit and lament.  I love my sister because she is my sister.  I however, don’t like her very much.  I am quite clear that the feeling is mutual.  I hope she is not suffering and she finds peace before she passes.  I still don’t know if I will travel to see her one last time, but I am finding it in my soul to forgive her.  I am finding a lot of things in my soul these days, and that gives me reason to smile.

My Yoga

I’ve been practicing yoga for almost five years.  I believe they call it “practice” because you never reach perfection, but the continuous strive for enlightenment and self-awareness.  Or, at the very least, the ability to calm your ass down when you want to strangle the shit out of someone. 

I became interested in yoga when I was around 32.  I took some beginner classes at a few local studios to see what it was all about.  I wanted to try something that would help with my overall flexibility and maybe assist in tempering my impatience.  I went to one studio near where I lived for about six or so months.  I took a beginner class in Ashtanga yoga, which is a bit more aerobic.  I learned some poses and series of salutations, and it was a good workout but I never truly felt any inward connection with myself. My mind never really turned off.   I also felt as if I was often being judged for my lack of flexibility or ability to attain proper form in some of the poses.  Keep in mind this was a beginner class, but it became apparent that a lot of my regular classmates had taken this particular course before.  They “mastered” the beginner shit and kept taking it because it was the only course they could attend and feel masterful, artful, or superior in their matching Calvin Klein yoga gear.

In short they were a bunch of poser douchebags.

I took a class a here or there, bought and read a few books on different practices and schools of thought, trying to find the yogic form that suited me.  My friend and colleague, Nate, then invited me to visit his studio.  So I went.

Nate is a fantastic human being.  He is funny, thoughtful, forward thinking and about as easy on the eyes as any man can get. He helped change my life and I’m sure he never even realized it.  

My first class with Nate was difficult.  Although I went in feeling a bit intimidated, (as he is in amazing shape and moves with almost flawless grace), I was immediately at ease with the temperament and mood he set for the class.  Many things Nate recited to us during that class, and every one after, I say to myself everyday now.  The environment in which Nate taught yoga was one of safety.  That hour was about the individual student experience and nothing else.  During those classes I learned to judge myself less and be thankful towards myself more.  I was just finally feeling like I was finding my way in the world of yoga.  Then I had the stroke.

It was hard to fathom doing anything when I was bedridden at home and couldn’t really walk or move much.  But I longed to do yoga.  In my head I imagined doing poses I’d never even tried.  I found myself going from fantasizing about my yoga body to becoming sad and frustrated at the body I was actually lying in. 

Nate and his wife Melanie were among the few people that I allowed to visit while I was still bedridden.  Mel was a nurse so she knew how fucked up I actually was at the time.  When they visited I expressed my frustration at not being able to move.  Nate calmly told me to breathe.  Visualize and meditate.  Inhaling cool, clean air and exhaling the toxins and clots out of my brain.  He told me to imagine the clots getting smaller and dissipating with each exhalation.  At first I was like “yeah whatever” in my mind.  But after actually giving it a try, I became calmer.  I was able to see myself well.  I was able to see a clean brain with no scarring, no clotting, no damage from this ordeal.  I’d lay in bed everyday after Nate’s visit and visualized.  I think I actually dreamt of these visualizations while I slept.  The ability to calm myself through the intent of my breath was something that stayed with me through my recovery and still does to this day.

After several months of physical restrictions, my doc gave me the “Ok” to incorporate activity.  Yoga was my first attempt back in the saddle of maneuvering my body post rehab.  So very carefully yet joyfully, back to Nate’s class I went.

I was exited to be among the moving. Not the living, the moving. Everyone always says how lucky I am to be alive.  I always add to that “And mobile!”  Alive and mobile.  For me alive wouldn’t really be alive if I was trapped in a body that I couldn’t move.   I remembered going to my one-year follow up MRI.  It was at the neurosciences outpatient facility.  I sat in that waiting room and fought back tears.  I was the only patient there who was not wheelchair bound.  I did not need the assistance of anything to breathe.  I could move my own limbs. I knew there was nothing other than sheer luck of the draw that I could.  The only thought in my mind that entire time was, “Any one of these people could’ve been me”.

It was at that same outpatient facility, a few weeks later, I was told I was clean.  Not only was my scan clean, but my brain tissue had no evidence of trauma. None.  My neurologist had two other docs look at it to see if they could tell what had happened to me. They couldn’t.  They in fact found it hard to believe that I’d had any clotting or trauma at all.  My brain looked as if it was completely normal and healthy.  No issues, no traces of anything it had endured. 

I, to this day, believe I breathed all that away.

Back at yoga class I struggled.  I’d lost the little bit of ground I had conquered with my practice. It was as if my body had no idea what I was trying to have it do.  I went to class pretty faithfully three, sometimes four times, a week.  After a few months I felt like I was changing.  I was self-correcting postures, looking for, and receiving, feedback from Nate and my more seasoned classmates.  Then one class it happened.  I had the break.

I’ve learned yoga is very powerful in how it can get you in touch with your inner self.  Your body and mind meet through the observation of your breath and when that happens, you can emote in ways you never imagined, over things you never thought that important. 

One pose I always struggled with, and still do most days is, Bandhasana, Bridge Pose. When done in its true form its basically a full back bend.  I can’t do a backbend.  Never really could.  It takes flexibility in the arms but most importantly, as most yoga poses do, it takes core strength to get your body up and steady.  Anyone that’s seen me try to do Bandhasana can tell I struggle.  Even with the modified version where I just lift my hips, poses difficulty for me.  On this day class was winding down and we were working our way into Bandhasana before relaxation began.  I sometimes made an effort to get into the full pose but never did. This day I had a really good class and was feeling especially strong.  So I though, “what the hell, try”.  I placed my hands backwards above my head on the floor and hoisted my hips upwards towards the ceiling pushing with my hands and arms. With one strong push I felt my spinal column spread and my head gently fell back as I lifted the weight of my body upward into a full backbend.  I think it took me a second or two to realize I was actually there.  I remember whispering to myself “yes”.  Before I could release the pose this wave of emotion fell over me and I began to sob uncontrollably.  I had never felt such gratitude for anything as I had at that moment.  I was so grateful for my body and its ability to heal that I was overwhelmed.  I cried.  And cried. And cried.  I cried through the rest of practice. I cried through relaxation.  I cried the entire drive home.

Nate saw what I had done and gently walked over and handed me a tissue.  My tears were not an embarrassment or even a distraction. It was simply part of my yoga experience.  Everyone there respected that and Nate had encouraged and nurtured it.  A few months after that experience I felt confident and excited enough to do Nate’s Yoga Boot Camp.  Yes, it was as brutal as it sounds.  But I did it every class, three times a week for six weeks.  And I am better woman for it.

Although I am no longer a regular student of Nate, everything he taught me has stayed with me. I have become much kinder to myself as I continually explore my practice. 

I recently overcame a fear. I have always aspired to do inversions (poses that are upside down in one way or another).  I have done a few, like plow, which is where you lift your legs back over your head and touch your toes to the floor behind you (laying down of course).  But I wanted to explore a real inversion.  I wanted to do a headstand.

So over the past few weeks I have tried to do a headstand against the wall without assistance.  Kicking myself up against the wall isn’t hard now that I can do it, but the fear that lingered in my head kept stopping me.  It wasn’t the fear of falling or the fear of breaking my damn neck.  It was the fear of that feeling of blood rushing to my head.  The thought of blood pooling in my head frightened me.  Although I knew better, that thought paralyzed my mind in allowing me to trust myself and embrace the progression of my practice.

I had been so enamored with headstands that I found myself dreaming about doing them.  I dreamt I was doing freestanding headstands in the middle of a field. I had this dream three consecutive nights last week.  I finally awoke on the third day and felt the overwhelming need to try. It was as if my mind was telling me through my dreams that I could do it and I needed to stop psyching myself out. 

I emerged energetically from bed and positioned my hands over my head while on my forearms facing the bedroom wall.  I then, without even thinking, kicked my feet up as if hands were going to emerge from the wall and catch my heels.  My heels met the wall and I held them still.  Settling my core into an almost comfortable position so I could adjust my forearms, I stayed there about fifteen seconds.  In those fifteen seconds, upside down, naked, my head on the ground and heels against my bedroom wall, I experienced that wave of gratitude once again. However this time I did not cry.  I laughed.  I smile each time I do this pose against the wall.  I am now working on moving away from the wall one inch at a time.  I hope to be able to rise into a freestanding inversion before the end of the year.

Yoga has brought me a wonderful exploration of self.  I aspire to teach and impact others the way Nate has taught, nurtured and impacted me.  I want to show others how yoga can change how they view themselves and their abilities.  Yoga has taught me to be brave with myself.  It has given me permission to try.  It makes me forgive myself when I fail. In great part, because of my yoga practice, I will always be grateful for the body I have, mindful of my capacities, and accepting of the woman I am continuously becoming.

Namaste.

Cope

Every so often I get contemplative.  I think about things.  I often look inward and try to ingest what I see in a constructive way.  Doesn’t always happen like that but my intent is usually good. 

Before I was sick I used to have a lot of self-doubt.  I mean, I still have some, but I have proven to myself thus far I can accomplish almost anything I set my mind to.  Sometimes that little voice finds its way back to my ear and whispers to me that I can’t. I’m not good enough; I’m not as smart as I think I am.  I am less than.   It’s an awful yet real feeling.  As I’ve gotten older and acquired a new perspective on this thing I have called a life, I can stop and listen to those whispers in my mind and realize them for what they are.  Fear. 

I’ve gotten into this mindset to bring myself a dose a happy reality.  When I feel crappy about myself, for whatever reason, I sit back and think, “What was I like five years ago?” The answer usually gives me pause.  It makes me grateful for who I am and the continuous journey I am taking growing into the person I am to become.  It’s the little things I notice.  Whenever I look down at my hands now, I find myself smiling.  Not just because I have my mothers lovely, tiny, hands but because they are very different hands than the ones I had in my younger years.  My mother used to say, “The true signs of a woman’s age and happiness are in her hands.”  She believed that you could tell a lot about a woman by looking at her hands.  I always found that intriguing. Every time I meet a woman or am around women I know, the second thing I always take note of is her hands.  The first is her shoes. My mom could tell a lot by hands, I can by shoes. 

After my dad died I developed a lot of bad habits.  Not aware of their progression as I got older, they just seemed to be part of me.  They were really just coping mechanisms for me to deal with the constant self-doubt and grief I spend most of my life repressing.  One of my earliest vice’s was nail biting.  My mother hated it.  Seeing as hands were such a reflection of a woman to her, now I totally understand why.  But I would always find myself doing it for no apparent reason.  I didn’t bite my nails I annihilated them. I don’t even think I had nail beds from nine to fifteen years old.  I would chew my cuticles and fingers bloody, and keep on going.  As I got older, late college through mid twenties, I got on the fake nail bandwagon.  I would get these awful acrylic tips placed on my tiny fingers.  They were practically shellacked on with cement and painted to make my hands look “normal and feminine”.  I thought my hands looked nice with them.  After awhile I got tired of spending the money (which I usually didn’t have) to get them done and I hated that they made my natural nails so frail and sickly looking when they came off.  Which of course was ironic seeing as my fingers were normally chewed down to the point my hands looked like my fingertips had been hacked off with a machete.  So after being on the fake nail bandwagon I gave them up and hoped my nails would grow back normal someday, (of course if I could keep them out of my mouth). 

Another bad habit I developed was twirling, pulling, and chewing on my hair.  I’ve had pretty long hair most of my life and I think that is partly because I liked to hide beneath it and keeping it long made it easy enough to fuck with when I got nervous.  The other upside is that I have nice hair, a trait of my genetic makeup (of one of the few good ones I might add).  I always got compliments on my hair, still do actually, although it is not as lustrous as it was when I was younger, it’s still pretty nice because I do very little to it.

I was a picker too.  I’d create a volcanic flesh crater from the tiniest of blemish on my skin.  Didn’t matter where it was.  I have my mother’s great skin so its not like I went through a terrible teenage acne phase but I was neurotic about any imperfections in my skin aside from my birthmarks and freckle spots, which I actually liked because I have a lot of the same spots my dad had. 

By the time my mother died, I had already cultivated a fabulous arsenal of unpleasant coping mechanisms, which manifested into some really icky habits.  Beauty of it all was no one really knew about any of them.  I wasn’t some one who bit my nails, or fussed with my hair in public.  I certainly didn’t pick my skin to the point of almost scarring it if front of other people either.  No, around my friends, classmates, and colleagues I was the picture of calm cool confidence.

I am an outwardly open person.  I tried to always be approachable and open to new people and new situations.  Perhaps that’s why others saw me as confident. 

My mother’s death made me realize that I needed more than the shit I was doing to cope.  I was in a deep hole.  I was swallowed up by my sadness and grief.  I lived in that cloudy haze of grief for many, many years.

During my college years I was under a lot of stress.  Betweens the responsibility of going to school full-time to make something of myself, working full-time to pay for said education, and taking the only hand in my mother’s care and well being while her health deteriorated was a handful for a nineteen year old girl.  I was my mothers medical POA (Power of Attorney) and primary decision maker in all her financial and health matters.  It was my job to be sure she was ok while I went to school and worked.  Looking back I did my best and really don’t think I could have done any more than I did.  Perhaps if I had help things may have been a little different, but probably not too much.

After my mother died the world changed for me.  It was quiet.  Things ceased.  I had already graduated from college and was only working one job.  Life seemed slow.  And extremely lonely.  The guilt and loneliness became almost unbearable.  My mother died in a nursing home, alone in the middle of the night.  I, to this day, am devastated I was not by her side, comforting her.  Holding her hand, telling her I loved her.  When my dad died, it was like a scene from the Godfather.  No joke.  Everyone was there; my mother, my siblings, my aunts and uncles.  All gathered around my father’s bed as if to pay homage to him in his final moments.  But not my mom. She died alone.  She died alone because I was at an overnight babysitting gig and I wasn’t there with her.  I’d spent almost fifteen years working on forgiving myself for my absence that night.  The first few years were the toughest.  I had to get tougher and meaner with myself to cope.

I can’t really remember when I first did it, but I remember the feeling. 

I had nightmares.  I felt lonely. I felt like the last person on earth who would ever love me was gone forever. Soon my thoughts of worthlessness and self-loathing became constant.  With my mom gone there was no one to counteract them.  Although I never allowed them to surface outside of myself, they were very much there. When the nail biting, hair pulling, and skin picking became all but useless to calm me and find me any peace I found myself at a loss.  I thought of suicide.  But not because I wanted to be dead.  I simply wanted to be reunited with the two people who I loved most, my parents.  In all my grief I knew suicidal thoughts were just stupid.  Also the fact I grew up Catholic haunted me a bit.  What if I did off myself and ended up alone in a more miserable fucking place?  Well hell that would suck. 

Now, I know what a lot of you might be thinking right about now. “She needed therapy.”  No, I didn’t.  And I don’t.  I am and always have been ridiculously self-aware.  I know my shit.  I don’t need to pay some fucknut  $150 an hour to listen to my problems because he/she can’t cope with their own.  I know my issues well.  Granted, the way I chose to deal with them wasn’t always ideal, but I knew they were there.  And that was more than half the battle.

Pacing around my apartment in the middle of the night, a few months after my mom died, I was having a bout of really horrible insomnia.  I either slept for days on end or went weeks literally without rest of any kind.  It was awful.  My grief wouldn’t let me be.  Looking back I think the absolute worst part of it all was that I was alone in it.  We didn’t grieve my mother as a family.  My relationship with my mom was very different than the one she had with my siblings.  I can’t speak to it because I wasn’t around for most of it, but I damn well know it was different.   And that loneliness stemmed from being alone in my grief.  Anyhow, I was pacing around my apartment and finally slumped to the floor of my bedroom almost surrendering to the insomnia.  There was no sense in trying to make myself tired.  Then I remember just leaning my head back and unintentionally tapping it against the wall. I leaned back just a hair too hard and it hurt when I hit it. 

It was like a light bulb went on.

I wanted my mind to stop.  I wanted a break from feeling so god damn bad.  I wanted to sleep.  In that moment, I pulled my head forward and threw it back again, this time harder than the last.  Not sure how long it took, but I banged my head against the wall with precision and purpose until I knocked myself out cold. 

When I awoke several hours later, it was if I had discovered a new drug.  I’d probably given myself handfuls of concussions over those subsequent years.  It made me feel better and I could justify it away telling myself that I got injured worse playing sports or in the mosh pit at concerts. Plus, unlike my knarly fingertips, there was no trace of this behavior to the naked eye.  Over time this destructive, yet comforting, behavior became my “go to” method when I wanted to escape my mind’s negativity.  The nail biting, hair twirling, and skin picking all fell to the wayside. 

I eventually stopped because my life had gotten better.  I got married.  I began a business.  I felt loved and had purpose.  Although I had done it for years, I allowed myself a reprieve from knocking the shit out of myself regularly.  The need to punish myself had begun to subside.  Not too mention I knew at some point my luck could run out and I may actually hurt myself.

While I was recovering from the stroke I nonchalantly asked my neurologist if the brain clots could have been cause from prior head trauma.  Even though it had been almost eight years since I stopped the literal head banging, I had to ask.   He assured me that it was not.  The hormone imbalance in my body was what caused my blood to hyper coagulate, hence causing the clots. 

When I look down at my hands today, I smile.  I have my mom’s petite, slender hands with lovely natural, healthy looking nails which I never paint.  I love the look if them natural.  I actually have a few wrinkles on my hands and due to weight loss you can see my veins.  And although my nails aren’t perfect, they are lovely even if they are uneven because one or two will break when they get long.  My hair is still long and only gets my fingers or a brush run through it regularly.  I admire my grays as they poke out of my dark brown locks as if to stand at attention so I will be sure to see them.  Much to my pleasure my head is still attached, all in one piece.  It’s hard as ever but right as it should be. 

I still have an occasional bad day.  The only difference is that on those days I go for a run.  I lift weights.  I talk to my husband or I call a friend.  I remember how lucky I am to not only be alive, but to not be locked in a padded room somewhere (insert sarcastic laughter here).  I am also lucky to no longer be alone.

I can think of my mother’s face, her laugh, and all the things she said to me when I was a girl.  I can smile and remember her with love and be happy I knew her.  I continue to miss her everyday, but I no longer grieve.  I celebrate.  Each day I break down a new wall within myself. 

And I don’t use my head to do it.

Tugg

I love dogs.  Anyone who knows me knows I am a dog person.  I’ve had dogs all throughout my childhood and a good portion of my adult life.  There is something so wonderful and magical about a dog.  I can’t really explain it.  All animals are great, even cats, but the uniqueness of the canine is one you have to experience to appreciate.

Have you ever had a dog, or any pet for that matter, that seems connected to you?  I don’t mean lovingly following you around and staying up your ass 24/7 (I have that as well in the form of my German Shorthaired Pointer, Briscoe, whom I adore).  I mean a dog that was so emotionally and mentally in tune with you that is seemed as if it was part of you?  Sounds nuts, I know. Yet I had a dog like that.  He was a sweet red and white piebald dachshund named Tugg. 

Tugg died suddenly six days before I was admitted to the hospital for my stroke.  A few people have said his death was the stressor that put me over the edge that contributed to the stroke. I often wonder if he knew what was coming before I did. 

When we found Tugg he was at a not so reputable pet store and it was clear that he was a puppy mill dog.  Now for all you anti-puppy mill people, don’t get all huffy.  We did not go into that establishment looking for a dog, just some toys for Linus, our other dachshund, who still lives with us happily perched on his throne we like to call the couch.  I wasn’t even aware they sold puppies until we walked in.  There were those sad ass glass cages with rows upon rows of all kinds of dogs.  We looked at them for a few minutes and that’s when I saw Tugg.  He was so tiny and just sat still with his face resting on the glass.  I wanted to see him.  Reluctantly Keane let me ask the salesperson to play with him.  She picked him up and brought him out to me.  We didn’t go into one of those pens with doors, she just handed him to me.  He immediately felt heavy for his size, but not with weight but as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his little tired back.  He instantly rested his head on my shoulder, letting out a long tired sigh.  I am certain to this day, at that moment, Tugg and I both felt we were home.  I looked over at Keane with a tear in my eye knowing I could not leave him behind.  Something was off.  His back legs were weak and just hung down if not supported.  He was a little older than the other puppies there and obviously hadn’t sold yet so we got him for a discount.  $800 later (yes it was hardly a discount) we took Tugg home.  I think it was the best money we’d ever spent. 

Tugg’s background became apparent quickly.  We took him to the vet to be checked out and his back legs were so badly damaged and atrophied that the vet said with treatment and care he might walk but he’d never run.   It is most likely he spent his early weeks crammed in a cage with several other dogs unable to move.  We gave him glucosamine for his muscles and I massaged his little legs every day.  I took off work for a few days when we first brought him home to help him acclimate and also help Linus, who was almost two and an only dog thus far, get used to him.  He was a happy little dog. Everything new with Tugg gave us an inkling of what his short life was before us.  And it didn’t seem good.  For days, every time we took him in the car he cried.  He didn’t stop until we reached home again.  It wasn’t the fear of the car or being out I don’t think.  It was if he was concerned about the destination.  It finally connected for me when I called the pet shop to discuss his legs the day after we visited out vet.

The guy told me that Tugg was fine but if we didn’t like him we could bring him back for a full refund. I asked what would happen to him if we did (not that I EVER considered it for a minute). They told me they’d put him down.  They had lost money on him already.  The light bulb went on.  Someone bought this precious boy and then returned him because he was too much work.  No wonder he cried in the car.  After that call to the store, I cried.  I promised Tugg I would love him and take care of him forever. 

Over time Tugg walked freely and steadily around the house.  Within two months he was bolting up and down the stairs.  He ran like the wind.  I would take him on long walks and he flourished.  We realized over time that Tugg had a lot of physical characteristics of his breed that indicated his mother was grossly over bred.  Hence the puppy mill theory.  He had a lot of recessive genetic markers that would only show in up dachshunds that were of a ninth litter or later.  I wish I could have found his mother and cared for her too. 

Tugg had a lot of difficult habits that I easily overlooked.  When we brought him home it was clear he did not know how to disregard his own feces.  We’d come home from work and he’d be in his crate covered in it. Every single day for months.  Keane and I would call each other on the way home from work to see who would get there first.  It got to the point where I was happy to come home and see him, even though he was a smelly mess and Linus, who for a dog could be categorized as a neat freak, would be all out of sorts wondering what in the hell we are doing letting this dog smell the place up.  Shit covered and smelly, Tugg always greeted us with happy eyes, an excited tail, and shit to fling in any direction with scrappy feet.  He was such a sweet dog that it was easy to see beyond the mess.

Over time we trained Tugg to keep his crate clean.  We rewarded him with love and lots of affection.  Of course, we did figure out that he was shitting in the house and eating it to cover it up.  But like the mess in the crate we were patient with him and eventually he disposed of all of his waste outside in the grass, as was appropriate. 

Despite his training and great behavior, Tugg will be remembered by some as quite the “piddler”.  If Tugg liked you and was happy to see you when you visited, you got sprayed.  It was hysterical to me, and he was so cute and lovable that anyone he would spray, (and there were only a select lucky few), adopted a stance so they could greet him while avoiding the excitement of his urine shooting everywhere.  It was kinda gross but adorable and hysterical too. 

The thing about Tugg was he knew things.  He was very much in tune with me.  I say that a lot to describe him.  When I was sad, he sat at my feet or lay next to me. When I was afraid he would reassure me things were ok with his happy tail.  And when I was anxious, which was a lot back then, he would comfort me.  He followed me everywhere and was always ready to do as I asked and behave in a way that I needed.  Again, I know it sounds crazy but its true.  I said that Tugg was the canine manifestation of my ‘Id”, always looking for happiness and trying to protect me from my saddest and darkest parts of myself.  He always could make me smile, even when I think of him teary eyed today.

One morning I work up and got ready for work.  I went downstairs and Tugg was lying in his crate.  He was slow to get up.  He usually jumped up in the morning and ran around the house as if to greet not only us, but also every piece of furniture in the house. That day he seemed tired and moved slowly.  We thought perhaps he’d hurt his back or hip, as he ran around like crazy all the time.  I always used to think Tugg ran a lot because the vet told us he never would.  His legs seemed to give him lots of freedom.  I also like to think he ran because he was stubborn and wanted to constantly remind himself and us he could do it regardless of what anyone said.  Of course I may be projecting…

Luckily Keane was off work at that time so he was home to monitor him.  I had to go off to work and felt terrible to leave him not feeling well, but I was happy he wasn’t alone. 

The next day he was dragging a leg.  We took him to the vet who said he may have slipped a disc and gave him an anti-inflammatory and a muscle relaxer.  It didn’t help. Each day Tugg got a little worse.  By day three he couldn’t move anything but his tail. He could lift his head but we knew it was painful for him to do so.  I was distraught.  I was so upset each day that I had to go to work and leave him.  Keane was beside himself as he did a myriad of things each day to make him comfortable without success.  One day Keane managed to wrap Tugg in ice packs and the swelling was relieved enough he slept for awhile.  When I arrived home on day four, Tugg’s neck was swollen.  He couldn’t rest his head.  His chin was forced up by the swelling.  Each day I came home and he would wag his tail at the sight of me.  But on this day he didn’t.  He looked up at me as I cried. I told Keane I was not going to let him suffer anymore.  I called the vet and asked if we could bring him in to be put to sleep.

The vet, knowing what was up, said he would stay late and we could bring him in.  This was his fourth and final visit to the vet over those four days.

I wrapped Tugg in a big, soft, red fleece blanket from the couch.  It was his favorite to lie on.  I held him close to my chest, on my lap in the passenger side of the truck as we drove to the vet at seven o’clock in the evening.  I was crying hysterically.  I could not believe it was coming to this so quickly.  I looked down at Tugg and asked him, “Am I doing the right thing?”  This dog, MY dog, who barely moved anything but his tail in the past 48 ours, used every ounce of energy to pull himself up to my face and began licking me uncontrollably.  I cried harder.  It was as if he was telling me it was the right thing to do, and even in the last hour of his life he comforted me. 

We walked into the vet’s office to a full lobby of people and their dogs.  I, of course was a mess.  The nurse was waiting for us and immediately took us back to a nice quiet room that looked oddly out of place for a veterinary office.  Thank god she was there waiting because I have no idea how I would have sat among those people sobbing over my sick dog.

The room was bright but not obnoxiously so.  It had a nice soft couch where I sat and held Tugg.  It had that Rainbow Road, or whatever it’s called, poem framed on the wall. The vet came in, took one look at Tugg and said, “Wow, it appears he has advanced lymphoma.  This is the right decision, he can’t come back from this”.  It didn’t make me feel any better but it was something.  Tugg gave me all the confirmation I needed in the truck.  Maybe his immune system was compromised and that sped up the lymphoma.  Who knows.  I just knew my dog was sick and I had to love him enough to put him to rest.  

The vet explained the very easy and painless injection.  I looked into Tugg’s eyes and held him as the vet injected the syringe into his hindquarters.  I kissed him and kept telling him I loved him and that he was a good boy.   Within a few seconds he was gone. 

The nurse came in to retrieve Tugg but I was not ready.  I asked for some time. She left us alone with him and I held his little limp body for what seemed like a long time then, but not long enough looking back now.  I don’t really know how much time had passed but I was petting him under the blanket and realized he had gotten cold.  “He’s cold.” I turned to Keane.  He went and got the nurse.

When they came back into the room, I asked her what was going to happen to him. “Well”, she seemed not thrilled to be answering my question, “He will be placed in a mass cremation and disposed of in a sanitary manner”.  Mass cremation?  I looked at Keane and said, “We can’t”.  He then asked what a private cremation would cost and how his ashes would be returned to us.

By the time Tugg’s ashes came back to us, I was already hospitalized.  I read a lot of stuff on dogs and their sensory instincts.  I often wonder if Tugg knew the stroke was coming and that Keane could not take care of both of us.  I know it seems ridiculous to think that my dog somehow accelerated his own death so Keane could focus on making me well.  But that’s the kind of dog Tugg was. He was loving.  He was gentle and sweet.  He was entertaining and funny as hell.  Most of all he was grateful.  Tugg showed me everyday for five years how I could smile through anything. 

I still have Linus and Briscoe.  They are both great dogs and I know that they notice Tugg’s absence every day, as I do.  It’s been two years and I still look at this picture next to his ashes and greet him everyday.  I like to think he is running around, wagging his tail greeting me from wherever he is as well.