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March 2020

A place to practice being seen.

This fear of being seen is the beating heart that breathes life into all my other little fears. It gives birth to dysfunction, suffering and probably contributes to an illness or two. But it wasn’t until early-March, when Covid-19 hit Maine and all in person meetings changed over to zoom, that I recognized the fierce pull of this mama fear’s orbit.

I had my first vinyasa yoga teacher training via zoom the second week of March. When week five of our 6-month training had to be cancelled, I was secretly thrilled. I’d been so severely depressed, I didn’t know how I was going to get myself to the studio (less than 10 minutes away) and through the next three days of training with twenty other people. That Friday morning I decided to cancel. I was definitely ill. It just wasn’t physical. Make-up sessions for missing material aren’t cheap, and I’m on a fixed income, which tells you things head-wise were really unmanageable. When the studio owners called off the training for that particular weekend I was pretty happy. And then after the brief reprieve of relief started the jackhammer of shame.

When a couple weeks later it was decided our training was to change over to virtual for the remainder of the program, I thought: hmmmm, maybe this will take some of the pressure off getting myself there, to the studio, and engaging in-person with people.

I soon realized being on zoom was actually much worse than being in a room full of people. In person I could sit in a circle and tuck myself away without feeling too visible. If anyone glanced at me, chose to give me a lingering look, or, god forbid,  watched me, I’d probably know. Online I had no idea who was looking at me and for how long. There was no way for me to be vigilant about my surroundings; to rely on my intuition to tell me pay attention, something’s wrong. I know, I sound utterly paranoid. And self-absorbed. You’re right; I was both these things. Yet I’ve learned that fear and anxiety don’t abide by the simple rules of rational thinking. While I’m anxious, the more I’m aware of what’s going on around me the safer I feel; the more manageable the fear and soemtimes terror feels. And sometimes that’s simply how I have to get through something (i.e. employ this once ever useful survival skill)

On zoom, I felt so exposed. And scanning the virtual “room” didn’t quite work in the same way. Instead of catching the gist of what other people were doing using peripheral vision, on the computer screen trying to take in all the squares of people at once left me feeling overstimulated, hollowed out and, at the end of the session (or day), exhausted. On saner days when my anxiety was not such a beast, I could minimize everyone and only concentrate on the speaker. Of course, then I could obsess about the people I couldn’t see.

After my first experience with zoom, I fell into a three-day pit of despair. Then realizing that things weren’t likely to change anytime soon, I made a decision: no matter how scared I was of having this online presence, I was going to charge ahead and try it anyway.  What was holding me back aside from my own fear? Nothing. Which means this was on me to conquer. Could I turn off my video and be a non-presence for the entire course of this training? Yes, of course. But how would that serve me right now? A better question: would giving in to this desperate need to stay invisible quell the deepening wave of depression I was slipping into? Or would surrendering to its comforting demand to simply disappear continue to hardwire a very old neural network in my brain established long ago to help keep me feeling “safe”.  An interesting topic, for sure; and one for a different post.

I decided to push ahead, giving myself breaks with the video off when panic started to steal over me. So. Since mid-March I’ve chaired various meetings, I’ve recorded myself while teaching on zoom and then WATCHED IT. It was soooooo uncomfortable. Until it wasn’t anymore. And I’ve taught multiple classes now. Though in the beginning I had all kinds of panic attacks around doing these things, the more I practiced the less of a big deal it was. The less perfect I tried to be, the more human I became. I now believe this is a skill worth cultivating. Moving through fear can be a practice. It’s going to be messy, scary, and awkward as hell, but instead of running away from it, which is my usual MO, I’m going to do it anyway. I’ve spent my life going the other way and it leads absolutely nowhere (except maddeningly back to the fear itself).

I started this blog when my grandfather had his first heart attack in the summer of 2018. I could feel the grief that was already there grow sharper, carving itself into me. I knew I was in trouble. Because of an ear infection, I couldn’t dance (one of my top coping strategies; it also opens up a seam in me that lets the bliss out). I knew this process was the beginning of his end, and I needed to find a way to navigate what was coming.  So I came here and I wrote. The blog was a mess, but I didn’t care. I wrote until I cried, and cried until I wept; and then I wrote more. After my grandfather passed I turned inward and stopped writing here– or anywhere, for that mater.

This post comes at a time when much of the world is in shut-down mode. Maine has closed its schools, and most of its non-essential business; I’ve lost my jobs, my roommate, and, like all of us, am peering into the deep unknown, uncertain of when I’ll be able once again to enjoy the physical closeness of another human being (be it in a hug, hands held in partner dancing, or the pause of a hand against a friend’s shoulder).

My second attempt at this blog is to share myself with you in various ways. My words, my art, and any resources/practices that I’ve found helpful; they’re all yours to look through. And please forgive me, it’s going to take some time to compile. One of my hopes is that in doing this I’ll be ale to connect with others. The other hope is that at some point, through getting to know me, you will feel connected, less alone, and perhaps even safe enough to reach out (to me or to someone else). There is no way we can get through this life alone, especially not now in this volatile world. We need each other, to practice speaking, test the volume of our voice, thrash our bodies around to get some rage out, and then come back to that center still place, where discomfort hums like an electric current, background noise, and the nervous system has a chance to power down. We need to remember our own resilience. We are in charge of our internal environment. There is a way we can work with our minds, a way we can change our thinking, and that is through our body. (More posts on this later) We are in charge of our choices (to some degree); of how powerful we feel (the way we talk to ourselves/self-dialogue); regardless of what other tells us. We can learn how to unlearn years of pain, trauma, and suffering. We just need help, resources, the a community of healing. I have more privilege than many, so I have less barriers to knock down. I have not been told or shown my whole life by my family, by my culture; that I’m nothing, that my skin color makes me less human, that my body makes me less worthy of love.

I have been told (or shown) that my mental illness makes my words less reliable, my narrative of physical disease, of anything really, more suspect; and that my symptoms (physical mostly) are probably blown out of proportion. In addition, my petite size, though socially acceptable in our country, has historically made male (usually white) doctors feel entitled, perhaps subconsciously talk down to me. I have to work extra hard at asserting myself. At appearing powerful and in control (in certain situations). Though I am full of complexities, as we all are, and am steeped in my individual history and generational narrative, again, as are we all, I am still a small, white cis-woman and this grants me access to certain freedoms that should be understood and granted as BASIC HUMA RIGHTS instead of awarded as privileges. This is an area I am only now beginning to fully comprehend. Awakening is a life-long process and I hope to continue breaking open and transforming day-by-day.

There are times I feel a debilitating depression. For those of us who entertain this guest often, we know how devastating its isolation can be. No matter how well I know that reaching out is going to take me out of my pain for a little while, that it will remind me that I am loved, actually picking up the phone requires the energy it takes to run a marathon. That’s my internal experience, anyway. So sometimes I decide to sink further into my bed and under my covers. (Thank god for my dog).

Right now isolation has taken on new meaning. The regular avenues of coping with my lows are unavailable to me (swing dancing being the most significant). I have to find other ways to share, other ways to connect, or I will feel myself slipping deeper into the downward spiral of despair. Though I’m terrified at the idea of strangers reading any of these words, more frightening is the possibility of friends and acquaintances perusing these pages. Pain, however, is a great motivator. And at the moment I am in great mental and emotional pain. So I’m going to show up here anyway. These pages, and your eyes, will be my practice.

Still, there are some days the emotional pain is so great that I don’t want to be here anymore. This is distressful, to say the least. Yet what makes it even more terrible is that when I’m not depressed, I can recognize how blessed I am. I know who I am, I do what I love, and I’m surrounded by people that care about me. I also have a lot of privilege and I see all of this. But when I no longer want to be living this life, I can’t connect with this clear-seeing gratitude anymore. I may know it rationally, but I can’t feel it in my body. When this happens the pain deepens, and shame swells. And deeper into the well of despair I dive.

I know that I’m not the only one. My closest friends share this struggle. Over the years I’ve realized something: people sharing their stories give those listening the power to share their own. As human beings, we suffer greatly, we get depressed, low, even if it’s not given a diagnosis. We go through trauma, physical illness, unfathomable pain at the hands of ourselves and others. Suffering is suffering; there is no need to compare. But we do need to share our stories. They matter. I have benefited greatly by connecting with the writing of others who deal with mental illness. I’m incredibly grateful for all those who share their stories, their struggles and how they move through them. There will be another side. Healing is possible. There will also be more pain. How can I move through it if I’m always trying to get around it? The only way out is through. I’m very lucky. I’ve had the resources to find the help that I need. And over the years I’ve needed a tremendous amount of help. But these resources aren’t available to everyone who needs them and seeks them out. The way I see it, I don’t have the luxury of not using my voice anymore. To be heard is to be seen. So this is where I meet my fear.

So this is my practice now: I’m going to let you see me. 

I want to tell you how I cope. I want to show you I’m not perfect and I’m working hard on not trying to be anymore. No, I don’t want to fix you. I certainly don’t know what’s right for you. But I can offer you something: my experience, and embedded in it, small seeds of hope.  Maybe in my strength you will see your own resilience reflected. We are capable of so much more than our pain and fear would have us believe. Trust me, please. I’ve just begun to figure this out.

Lastly, I want you to know something very important: you are NOT ALONE. Not in this moment, nor in any of your struggles. I may not know the particulars of your story, I may not be able to relate to the specifics of your pain; but we share the same component of being human and having the experience of suffering, isolation and self-loathing. We have the basic human need for love, connection, purpose, and healing. You can tell me your story, if you’d like, I’d love to hear it, and I can tell you mine. We can listen to each other, empathize, and encourage our mutual strength, both in individual resilience, and in our collective lion’s roar. Know this: you have me, and I have you, in these virtual worlds our words tendril out toward another, reaching for connection, and drawn together they are sharp enough to carve a space for healing. The soil has to be tilled before the seeds are planted. There’s plenty of work to do; we just don’t have to do alone.