A forked road

Tags

choosing healing, demarcation point, fork in the road, Grief, Healing, PTSD, Sorrow, Trauma, Wisdom

One of the truest things I know is this:

Wisdom comes at a price

It isn’t cheap or easy, and the whole getting of wisdom process itself? It sucks. Until it stops sucking, and by then the wisdom is deeply ingrained.

So much so that it doesn’t really feel like one has learned anything at all.

This was true for me. Until of course, I found myself observing the experiences of others.

It doesn’t matter how similar/dissimilar their experiences are to mine. It’s all around us, all the time: the world is in deep, deep pain. Sometimes, that pain gets tipped over into terror and agony. This is what I’m talking about.

Lately I’ve seen friends and acquaintances alike going through some heart-rendingly painful experiences. Seems to be a lot of this going around at the moment (blame the supposed end of the world perhaps – which is really just a massive energetic shift of consciousness).

These days, I find that suddenly I know what to say or do. How to help. Well, sort of.

I still have that horrible sense of helplessness, even though I know how it feels from the inside out. There’s only so much someone can do.

I really hate that.

I wish I could rip open my own soul so I can put my battle scars on display. So you really can know that I really, really do get it.

Regardless of my ability to express this, I do understand. Intimately so. And I see and feel the sorrow, trauma or grief of others and I silently weep in sadness because I not only know roughly where they’re at; I also know what’s coming.

Holy Shiva, how well I remember those first steps on the path of incomprehensible loss…

I remember trying to make sense of it all and that NOTHING made sense, no matter what.

I remember how long it took before I realised that actually, nothing WAS making sense!

It took even longer than that to realise there was truly a way out. That feeling good again was even feasible or desirable or something that could happen to me.

As awful as it is while you’re still in the bleeding-and-wounded phase of those experiences, at some stage there’s a fork in the road.

A very clearly marked demarcation point

1. Continue down the path of total and complete utter-fucked-up-ed-ness.

OR

2. Get really sick of the path of total and complete utter-fucked-up-ed-ness and decide that enough is enough.

Of course, the first path eventually leads to the second. However, the time frame on that is different for everyone. For some people, it can take their entire life. Others pass from this world before they get there.

THAT’S how hard this shit is to get through.

The second path? Choosing that one… is just the beginning of the process of healing. Which, it should be said is an absolute bastard of a thing to do.

Because real healing requires in-depth levels of honestly – with yourself, about yourself, about how you relate to everyone else in your life. It requires real change.

Eventually, this second path leads to bone-deep wisdom. Life lessons you’ll find are applicable across all kinds of situations, times and places.

The other thing? This becomes an ongoing path for the rest of your life. Once you step onto that fork in the road, you’re wisdom-bound. Yes, you’ve paid a ridiculously high price. Yes you have.

But in choosing healing, or even in choosing being utterly fed up by feeling like crap… you’re on the path to a deep understanding of yourself, of life, of what makes being alive worthwhile. Despite all the horrors life has thrown your way.

I guess what I’m saying is that when ready, you WILL get there in the end.

But the road is long and so it really isn’t worth looking too far ahead. Way better to focus on where you’re at right now.

And keep an eye out for that fork.

~ Svasti xxx

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The last exhale (farewell Nan)

Tags

Can’t catch my breath, death, Enter your zip code here, farewell, funeral, Grief, No more a grandchild, no more grandparents, tea parties

Can’t catch my breath, the wheel is turning; my station on the totem pole changing before my eyes. Not for anything I’ve done, but rather a birthright.

I am now the next eldest generation. No more a grandchild, for all the grandparents are gone.

She passed this morning, my maternal grandmother. Before we had a chance to say goodbye since my Prick Uncle didn’t see fit to warn us sufficiently, even though he saw her on Saturday (bad family blood never really helps in the end).

We could’ve been there yesterday, had we known. But we didn’t.

Now I’m no longer a grandchild. Only one generation left older than me.

And I can’t catch my breath, no air in my lungs where I mean it to be. That last exhale where she finally slipped the last veil of this life, that’s where my lungs are at. Emptied in shock and not filling up again (not yet) no matter how many swigs of O2 I take.

My lungs are empty, like hers are, and I didn’t get to say goodbye before she was gone.

She wasn’t perfect but she was my Nan.

And, she was my grandfather’s keeper, with his suppressed PTSD and life-long alcohol-themed self-medication. A milliner, a marvellous baker of deliciousness (including homemade fig and apricot jam) and in her senior years, an adventurous solo traveller with her senior citizens group.

I learned to tie shoelaces in her lounge room, in my knitted slippers with their knitted laces. There were tea parties with proper English China and biscuits on matching side plates. She made for my sister and me, matching toy clowns with their spaghetti-like arms and legs, and embroidered faces.

Growing up, she was a wonderful Nan. She gave us love.

But she was also mean-hearted, jealous and bigoted. It was only later I learned of her involvement in the forced adoption of my half-brother and it’s something I’ve never been able to entirely reconcile.

A wonderful grandmother. A terrible mother.

A troubled soul whose own benign shop front faltered as dementia kept up its relentless advance. More, we saw the bitterness and meanness my mother always said was there.

Finally we understood how it was for my mother who, to her own credit, never poisoned us against her: we had a relationship with my Nan despite my mother’s own troubled connection.

It was that ever-growing meanness in the end which kept me away. That, and Prick Uncle moving her to the opposite side of town, closer to him, but nowhere I could get to easily or often without a car.

There’s no point in making myself feel bad about that now. She’s gone. But the Nan I knew has been gone for many years now, really.

Yet… that final goodbye. That chance to share love and connection and let her know we were there? Taken from us through a sibling feud older than I am.

Now, I’m a grandchild no more. I’ll see her again I guess, on the day we bury her. Cold and small, the essential spark gone from her flesh. I’ll be able to tell her then as I’m telling her now that despite her flaws, and her apparently shoddy parenting, she was a good grandma.

And in the end, she got her wish to go peacefully and in her sleep. She lived probably fifteen years longer than she really wanted to, but it was only the last five of that she wasn’t really there.

Farewell Nan. Complicated lady, bearing both spikes and sweetness. Farewell, woman who was cold-hearted enough to give up her first grandchild on behalf of her own daughter. Farewell, maker of Peach Melba and Christmas Plum Pudding (with silver pennies inside) and homemade brandy custard.

May you have a fortunate rebirth, Nan. With lessons and learnings that bring you awakenings and ever-closer to your Essence Nature.

~Svasti

xxx

Motherless sod gets another clue

Tags

get a clue, Grief, hypothyroidism, Kali, misfiring hormones, Mother’s Day, mothering, Rage, raised by wolves, scrappy, self-mothering, self-nurturing, Shiva, stupidly low iron levels, yogi

This post is inspired by the turn of events since my last post (wow, I’ve learned a TRUCK-LOAD-LOT since then!), Rachel’s post on honesty and Christine’s post on self-mothering.

Full disclosure: technically I’m not really motherless given that my mamma is alive and kicking.

But sadly, her capacity for mothering never developed that well. The loving, giving, selfless put-my-kid-before-myself stuff isn’t really in her repertoire, and she’s emotionally unavailable in many ways. Sure, if I need money it (might) be given, but as for open arms to curl up in when my world is falling apart… not so much.

She’s too busy still dealing (or rather, not dealing) with a lifetime’s worth of her own grief and rage. In some ways, she’s still a seventeen year old girl having her child taken away from her and always will be. But she’s a motherless sod, too, having had a pretty poor example of a mother to call her own. So there’s no room for anyone else’s emotional needs to be addressed in my mother’s world. I’ve mostly accepted that these days…

But as a result I’ve been on my own in many ways for most of my life. A street urchin. Raised by wolves, I was. I really don’t know any better about lots of stuff.

I’m painfully aware of my lack of motherly nurturing, and have been for quite some time. My self-mothering skills are super-lame, although I’ll mother the heck out of my friends and loved ones. I’m more than happy to over-compensate in the outward direction but generally have little patience for my own needs.

Which makes sense really, since those needs were pretty much ignored as I went through endless mistakes in my teen years (some of which are documented on this blog).

However, it’s pretty difficult to turn that sort of street urchin-ness around. Why should I suddenly take up caring for myself when no one has in the past? I’ve survived this long as-is, so why should I change? Right?

But if like me, you’ve noticed all this and wanted to make a change… how does a semi-wild critter like me even begin to learn what’s needed to develop a self-nurturing instinct?

Here’s how it works for me: I’ve gotta have a damn good reason. Motivation. Something important has to be on the line to make it happen.

Now let’s just say that last weekend I was feeling pretty crappy. Not only had I just received a scary diagnosis from my doctor – with precious little in the way of actual information about hypothyroidism, thanks Doc! – but I also started my monthly cycle the very next day (apologies to any squeamish people/men-folk who might be reading).

When you’ve got stupidly low iron levels and you start bleeding, basically it’s like PMT on steroids: it blows. I had a three-day headache, my body ached and pain-killers gave no relief. My misfiring hormones were clearly having a merry old knees-up at my expense and I wasn’t invited. I was emotional, devastated at having a brand new “thing” to deal with courtesy of PTSD, and I could barely move. I slept through most of Saturday.

Somewhere in there I remembered that I actually know some really amazing people, like a friend of mine in the US who is both a GP and a naturopath. I emailed her and she very quickly gave me some awesome advice, including what questions to ask my doctor. The other part of her advice was to cut gluten and sugar from my diet, and to buy this book:

On the Sunday, I had to pull family duty: Mother’s Day, which is sadly not one of my all-time favourite days of the year. I slept most of the time I was at my sister’s place, too. There was some conversation about what’s going on with me but my mother accused me of “keeping them in the dark”.

Heh. I wasn’t, actually. It’s just that when you don’t talk to or see people on a regular basis, you tend to be less inclined to volunteer personal information about your health. Especially when you’re just trying to come to terms with it yourself!

But anyway, there was a point to this post and it’s about me getting another clue. So here it is…

This diagnosis of hypothyroidism is not as horrible as it first sounds. Well sort of. I do NOT subscribe to the standard western health model, so just because there’s an accepted “treatment” – aka synthetic hormones for the rest of your life – doesn’t mean that I have to lie down and take it.

And holy Shiva, I’m a yogi! But in my panic and fear, I forgot myself. I forgot my yoga and I forgot my relationship to the Goddess (Ma, Mary, Parvati, Kali, Durga etc). My patron Goddess form is that of Kali – who isn’t really as scary as she looks and/or is made out to be.

My lady Kali, she takes everything a part so it can be rebuilt. Become purified. Stronger. More refined. But first she takes you down to the bare bones, past whatever you think of as the possible end to it all. It aint easy, but in the end it’s a good thing. And her work is done with compassion and 100% motherly love.

This illness isn’t another reason to feel bitter, resentful and pissed off at my lot in life.

Rather, it’s a call to arms from the Mother Goddess, disguised as a really REALLY good reason to get my self-mothering act together.

It’s almost shamanic, the way this has come to a head in response to my statement/question: “I don’t know what to do next”.

The answer is this: get my health sorted out and develop my ability to self-nurture. Coz that’s important in the whole physical healing thing.

And if I’m EVER gonna kick my Grand-Bold-Stupid-Reckless-Awesome-Totally-Kicking-Life-Plan into action, then I need to be firing on all cylinders.

I suspect this next phase in the healing process aint gonna be easy. But then, nothing has been to-date, right?

Regardless, my hat is in the ring for this one because after everything I’ve been through, I’m sure as hell not giving up now!

~Svasti

P.S. The fiery warrior Svasti is back in the house!

A most memorable gift #reverb10

Tags

#reverb10, charm, desperation, evil, evil eye, gifts, Grief, hamsa, Morocco, souk, travels

Gift. This month, gifts and gift-giving can seem inescapable. What’s the most memorable gift, tangible or emotional, you received this year?
~ December 30 prompt

These are all gifts: love, hope, re-discovering my zest for life, creating new dreams, yoga, nieces, unexpected friendships, teaching, writing, personal revelations and crazy amounts of healing… and this year contained them all.

I’m having trouble however, propping up just one and pronouncing it the “most” memorable. Most. Like, more than the rest?

But I’d like to share with y’all gift my sister gave to me in November.

She and my brother-in-law took their two little girls to meet his family in Morocco. He’s the youngest of eight children and his mother is now very old. So old and wrinkly, that my eldest niece was terrified of her and told my sister that my brother-in-law’s mother eats children. Hehe! 😉

As an aside – a few months ago my sister came back to me and it was a balm for my heart. Finally, she acknowledged that she hadn’t really been there when I needed her the most. It was good.

Back to the story… just as my sister and her brood arrived at the airport for their enormous trip, I found myself experiencing feelings of abandonment. She rang to say goodbye and I realised (doh!) she actually WAS leaving the country for a whole month!

Guess I didn’t realise how much I relied on her being around. Even though we’re now grown up and no longer living in each other’s pockets, sharing the same bedroom, making up games, writing notes that we’d crumple up and launch across the room from one bed to another, having crazy little girl fights and dividing that room in half while negotiating terms for getting to the door or the wardrobe (on one side each of our “halves”).

These days there’s no time with all of her motherly duties to be giggling while eating ice-cream together, going on mad-cap adventures to re-live the tap classes of our youth or gossiping about boys over hot chocolates. Our relationship has changed; there’s less time to speak as sisters and even less than that to spend alone, just the two of us. Nowadays, there’s stuff we don’t know about each when we used to tell each other everything.

And despite our lack of connectedness, I keenly felt her impending absence like the sharpest of knives delicately pressing against my neck, leaving me breathless.

I broke down on the phone in my grief and sorrow, and I felt her desperation and powerlessness as she sat there doing her best with two little kids in an airport and about to leave the country. There was nothing either of us could do.

She heard me, I know that much. And she put a lot of effort into staying in touch while they were away. And it was good.

Finally they returned and there’s that whole present-buying thing people do. Returning home with trinkets from far-off places as if to say: please accept this tiny fragment of my experience.

And you know my feelings on “stuff” – that I want less of it – not extra “things” to feel obligated to have and hold and retain, for what reason?? If there’s one thing I’ve made abundantly clear about myself to my family, it’s that.

Regardless, I was a gift recipient as I knew I would be and I wanted to be grateful. A couple of decorative things from my parents (who’d also been overseas at the same time), and a tiny little box – perhaps an inch square – from my sister. Well, at least that one was small!

As I opened the box (red, green and silver foil) I exhaled and share a bonded moment of telepathy with my sister. Huh. Inside lying on cotton wool was this pendant:

It’s known as a hamsa – commonly worn as jewelery and/or displayed as an ornament in Moroccan homes in to ward off the “evil eye”.

And it is beautiful, elegantly and wordlessly conveying all of the wishes that I know live in my sister’s heart for me: to find love and happiness; for life to improve; for no more evil things to cross my path.

I can only offer my thanks, though I can’t look at her directly because if I do I might start sobbing. I can’t share words or in any other way convey my understanding of what she was thinking when, in a souq halfway around the world she bargained for this small piece of silver. I get it.

One of my birthday presents a couple of weeks ago was a white gold necklace to wear the pendant on – I’d nothing suitable – and since then I’ve worn it every day.

It’s not because I believe it can really ward me from evil as such (and anyway, I don’t really consider evil to be an entity like that). Rather, I wear it because it holds the promise of our sisterhood, and her very best wishes.

I love it very much, because that is a charm I can believe in. And it is very, very good.

~Svasti

11 things I just don’t need #reverb10

Tags

#reverb10, Acupuncture, Anxiety attacks, Courage, Cycling, Fear of rejection, Grief, Kinesiology, Procrastination, rampant consumerism, squatter’s rights

What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life?
~ December 11 prompt

1. Clinging to the past
   Bah! That past stuff, whether it’s limiting self-beliefs, traumatic events or anything else that’s been holding me back. Can’t say divesting myself of these ghosts will be easy but I’m prepared to keep at it. In my arsenal is kinesiology, acupuncture, cycling and of course, yoga (both as a student and a teacher).
   This year has proven that these things get results. Next year I’m keeping steady on my course with this work…
2. Fear of rejection
   My basic assumption is that no one but NO ONE could be looking at me. Not in that way. I’ll happily play a gauche game of eye contact hockey with a cute guy across a room (which actually happened just last week), but I completely fail when it comes to having the courage to just say “hi”. Lame. Gotta get my courage on!
3. That extra 10kg I’m wearing
   Not quite as slinky as a silk negligee but more intimately involved with my body… that layer of grief and sadness I’ve been hauling around, well that HAS to go. So I’ll be upping my daily quotient of sun salutes (which are awesome for the metabolism and digestion) and trying my hand once again at a little interval jogging.
4. Debts
   I’ve already covered this one I believe…
5. Grief
   I know it might be asking a little much, and I’m not too sure if there’s anything I can do about it. I’m thinking it’s up to the universe really… but I’d just LOVE a break from the grief. Fuck, it’s been five long years of hauling my ass out of desperate times and a whole twelve months without any fresh crap would be such a relief.
6. Procrastination
   Aren’t we all acquainted with procrastination? Do we all intend to do something about it? When did I pencil that in to my diary again?? 😉
   Seriously though, I’ve learned the only way to deal with putting things off is to do them right away. Of course, that’s not always possible but ya gotta try, right?
7. Anxiety attacks
   Gargh! If you’re not too clear on what happens when someone has an anxiety attack, it can often result in horrible chest pains, a racing heartbeat and feelings of doom and despair. They last for hours or days, and often arrive with no warning. In my case, they most often happen when I’m really stressed.
   I’ve had so many of them now that I almost roll my eyes when the symptoms appear. Not that it lessens their intensity, but at least I know what they are now.
   I think this will be one of the things I work on with my kinesiology appointments in the new year. Otherwise, I’m not sure how to fix my stress reaction (which appears to be somewhat broken).
8. Excess possessions
   I’m pretty much on a mission to get rid of all the stuff with squatter’s rights at my place that I don’t absolutely need. It goes hand in hand with my plan to abscond from the western world of rampant consumerism. I’ll be working room by room and getting ruthless, then employing the likes of eBay, Gumtree, charity bins and maybe even garage sales. It’s all gotta go!
9. Foods I eat that I KNOW don’t work for me
   I don’t believe I have any really serious food allergies as such, but I do know that eating wheat causes me to feel bloated and tight in the belly. Almost like I’m so full that I might burst. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. Cheese is another one that doesn’t seem to go down well once I’ve eaten it (oh, beautiful blue cheese and brie!!).
   Really, if I’m serious about treating myself with more respect, then I’ll pay attention to this before I do end up with food allergies!
10. Staying up late
    This is one of my all-time love-hate things I do to myself. I know I don’t cope with getting up early unless I’ve had a full eight hours sleep. I also know that I LIKE to get up early to fit some yoga in before work. Being a pitta-kappha constitution, early mornings also work better for my mind. And yet, I’ll sit up late regardless and get by on seven or even six hours sleep. By Friday night, I’m exhausted and over-sleep on the weekends if I can get away with it.
    None of this is what you’d describe as productive. In fact, I wrote most of this post in the shadows of the midnight hour. Doh!
    Part of resolving this one is managing my time better in the evenings. Going out less during the week, spending less time mooching about on my laptop and taking a stronger commitment to doing the right thing by my body and mind.
11. My hermit tendencies
    Honestly, I’m concerned that I spend too much time alone. I like my own company and how stress-free alone time is. But I could do with a little balance in that department. I figure though, that if I keep my teaching work going then I’ll naturally be involved with more people. Dunno what else I’m gonna do about it. Kirtan is my main social activity other than teaching yoga. Should I join another social group? Hmmm…

~Svasti

So… I said it…

Tags

Andre, Anxiety, Avoidance, Denial, EMDR, Grief, His name, House of cards, Loss, Therapy, Trauma, Trust

I need to come clean about something.

Actually, I don’t. I could ‘not’ write this, and not publish it either.

There’s a lot of ways I could keep this to myself.

But it would be against the spirit of my blog, in which I’ve truthfully (and often painfully) divulged much of my inner world goop. Always, always with the intent of de-clogging myself, and seeing more clearly what’s going on.

And so, I feel if I don’t get this out there, I’m lying. Mostly to myself, but sorta to those who bother to come here regularly, too. ‘Cept, if I didn’t, you’d never know. But I’d know that you don’t know. And that sucks.

So, yeah. I said it.

It wasn’t easy.

Going back a few weeks, this is my second last session in recent times. AN (my therapist) didn’t even know it was gonna be that sort of session.

Til I start talking…

You know, the reason I ended up coming to see you for EMDR therapy, was when H (my other therapist) uncovered my secret. That I never speak his name to anyone. H said she wasn’t sure how important it was for me to actually ever do it, and neither do I…

So what’s his name? AN butts in briskly.

…

[Radio silence]

And tears.

Could a red flag be waved more obviously?

AN says Okay. It’s time.

Nooooooooooooooooooo… I don’t think I can…

We start another EMDR pen-waving session. Me, stubbornly incapable of turning air into sound and forming that word. His name.

His fucking name. That stupid, meaningless word I’d allowed to assume such power. To mean other things. Become a symbol of terror.

Not saying his name it seems, became equivalent to wearing garlic, hopelessly attempting to ward off those vampirical horrors and fears, preying on my heart and mind.

Here on this blog, I’ve labelled him Andre. Where most other people I talk about have been given an initial only. Why? Well, he’s the main character of my story, right?

Right. Or is that denial? Avoidance? Being exceptionally cagey? Lying to myself?

It’s become so impossible to enunciate that I have violent psycho-somatic reactions. Coughing. Choking. Feeling like I’m about to die. An incredible sense of doom.

All of that, rather than speak that word.

Just a house of cards trying to cover for myself, willing to appear helpless rather than face it all squarely.

He was my friend.

He didn’t just take my safety. He took away my friend and replaced him with a monster. One of the few people I’d met down here that I could resonate with on some level. He was my friend, and he screwed it all up!!

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!

Swift-moving bile erupts from my mouth and body, scaldingly hot.

Can’t get that word out, not with all the grief and pain there. Sitting on the trigger like a trap.

AN asks me again, as we work through various emotions.

…

Still, nothing.

Mentally, I say it. Urge myself onwards. But no… nothing, again.

It’s dangerous. It’s scary. It means something… it means he wins. If I say it, I’m somehow bringing him to life again. And I’ve tried so hard to bury him, bury that night.

I’m powerless to command myself. Powerless. But it’s just a stupid name. Two syllables. Three letters. For fuck’s sake!

I can talk about anything else. Everything else. Just not this. Not this. Not…

Quiet now. I’ve sobbed til my heart is empty of tears. Raw raw, and fragile, and yet… false starts. Many of them.

His name is…

It’s…

I can mouth the letters silently. Only.

AN asks Does it start with a B?

No, it starts with an A.

That’s one letter. Only two to go.

But no. Locked into my seat in a small room with a kind but firm therapist, trying to shake me from my precarious perch. Gently, ever so gently.

My world right then, small and sharp. Pointed and painful. Dangerous, dark and terrifying.

It was coming. I wanted it to, but oh my god… the heartache, painfully beating like a foot trying to stamp its way out of my chest.

Like I’m talking to a child I say, It’s okay. Okay…

It’s okay… it’s only letters… its okay…

Why don’t I believe myself?

Just sitting and breathing now. And I can see, it’s just about courage now. That’s all that’s left. Finding a way to be unafraid long enough to squeeze it out. A little breath. A little sound.

His name. Its… its… okay, its… FUCK! Its… (wish my heart would stop aching), damn it, its….

And now it’s dead quiet in our room.

Its Apu.

AN repeats it a few times, loudly, so I can hear it, while I cry like a child. A child in shock, crying because the expression is entirely appropriate. Suitable to work through the pain. It’s shocking to say it. And hear someone say it. But somehow, its better. Already.

We finished things up, AN making sure I’m okay. And I left and went to a movie.

Then later, I wrote this…

And now you know. And I know you know. And again. It feels a little less covert. More real.

Still tender though, weeks later. Still hard to admit I’m okay with it. Even though its out there. And I’ve said it more than once now.

But guess what? I no longer choke (literally) when faced with those three letters. Not any more.

~Svasti