how it feels;

Desiryasa
Desiryasa
Sep 5, 2018 · 5 min read

“I’m feeling really anxious.”

Calmly. Collected, outwardly. An attempt to express my inner turmoil…without expressing my inner turmoil.

“What are you anxious about?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Ok.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. That was my best attempt at saying to my best friend, “I am experiencing a constant state of fear and mind-racing that is making it damn near impossible to finish my work day. As the day has progressed, I have taken a yoga break, a walk break, a meditation break. I have had green tea and water. I have pet the dog. I have done all the things that should calm my worried head, and yet my mind still races and my body shakes. Help.”

I certainly will not blame those around me for not reading my mind and seeing what is happening inside my head (although for most of my life, I would have). I am responsible for managing my own emotions. When I can’t manage them, and I need help, I am responsible for asking for that help. I know this. Fully.

This task of managing my emotions (and asking for help), of course, fits into the long list of things in life that are easier said than done. Much like my goal of meditating every single day (ha!) or eating a pescatarian diet (also, ha!). All of these tasks of self-care, self-maintenance, self-reflection require discipline that I seem to lack.

In my high school years, when emotions first clearly became things that I needed to manage, I chose not to. I was depressed and angry, but not depressed and angry enough to accept help. Not depressed and angry enough to admit that I was depressed and angry.

In my college years, I discovered the power of exercise for stress management. The tool was powerful. It worked. Over and over, it worked. I could finish the stress cycle with a pair of running shoes, and then come back to push myself over the edge again. And again. And again. Running saved my life and my GPA. Running did not, however, resolve the underlying issues that kept the pressure so heavy in the first place.

After college, I started a new chapter. I delved deeper and deeper into yoga and spirituality. I went to yoga teacher training, where I thought I fixed everything. There, I learned more about myself than I ever had before. I learned that I walk into every room telling myself the lie that I don’t belong, and that that lie is bullshit. I learned that I had been raped, and had smothered that fact for years. I learned that I could heal from the bullshit lie that I had been telling myself my entire life, and that I could heal from having been raped. I convinced myself that I had done the work and that the worst was over. Maintenance from there on out. I was sure of it.

False. Utterly, unequivocally false.

Twenty five years of smothering my emotions, carrying on a facade that I am perfectly fine when I could not possibly be fine, refusing to look inward and consider how life events may be impacting me. That is what I have to contend with. My first twenty five years were not easy. They included family alcoholism, family violence, suicide attempts by my immediate family, neglect, my mother coming close to death on multiple occasions, an adolescent social circle that included people who actually believed they were vampires, psychological abuse, bullying due to my religious views (or rather, lack thereof), rape, abandonment, and poverty. This is not an exaggeration. It is also not a pity party.

I have never wanted pity for my challenges, because I know they do not compare to the challenges that many other people face. I know that in many, many respects I am beyond privileged and beyond lucky, and I am grateful for that. Gratitude, however, does not have to exist in place of grief. I realize now that not only did I push away the pity of others, but I also pushed away the pity of myself. I refused to allow myself to grieve any of that. Any of it.

After peeling back a few layers in a yoga studio, I found, to my dismay, that there are many, many more to peel back. There was an urge to simply stop peeling. Simply be satisfied with the “work” that I had done to make peace with my story of rape and my lie about not belonging, and go back to life as usual, but a little better. I was, cognitively, quite satisfied with that.

Nice try.

My cognitive satisfaction is irrelevant. One or two layers pulled back simply revealed all the work there was to do, and the only way out is through. Through all the tears, the shock, the eye-opening, gut-wrenching truth of what has happened in my life and how it has truly, deeply, tangibly affected me and how I move through this world.

It feels like anxiety. My heart beating too fast, an inability to sit still. The thought comes up that maybe going for a walk will help, but often it doesn’t. It is impossible to stay on task. It is impossible to listen fully to the people around me. Panic ebbs and flows, and never completely leaves. Green tea sometimes helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. Meditation sometimes helps, but is much more difficult to accomplish than it is when I am calm. Yoga sometimes helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I break down and resort to more chemical help. A glass of wine, some form of THC, sugar. Sadly, they all help. And I know they hurt me.

It feels like depression, too. Like overwhelming sadness about who I am and what my life is like. Self-loathing to an astonishing degree. The sense that there is no point in doing any of my work, whether it be professional, personal, or for my home. The sense that no one else must like me either. The inner dialogue that says that I will always be like this. I will never be happier. I will always feel lost. Like I don’t think I can get out of bed. I can’t go to sleep, either. The sense that I should give up on my dreams, because what do they matter anyway?

The nice way to end such a piece of writing would be to say, “I’m better! This is how I did it!” I can’t tell a lie, though. I am not better. I will be. I am seeing a therapist, and she helps me move through this with truth and authenticity. I am having more good days, and the bad days aren’t so bad. I am not alone. I have many tools in my tool belt to move through this difficult patch of life. I know intellectually, without a doubt, that my life is good, my heart is good, the people around me are amazing, and that I am so incredibly lucky. And, I remind myself over and over that the only way out is through. Through the grief. Through the sadness and anger and shock that I refused to experience before. I will be better, and I don’t know when that will be. The tunnel may be long, or it may be short. And the only way out is through.

Desiryasa

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Desiryasa

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