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| The backyard, a place for yoga and in general doing things slowly |
A
week ago I had a day that didn’t go as planned, thanks to Lyme, but I managed
to jot down these thoughts in the evening. So here’s another post, a bit
overdue!
From
Weds August 12:
I pulled myself
out of bed this morning feeling far too spaced out—not the regular morning
aches, but a floating, almost loopy feeling that I recognized. It’s my brain’s
way of disconnecting from how at the bottom of it all, there’s something
crummy going on. Although it was a weekday, my boyfriend had spent the night
because he was going away in the afternoon, and we’d both been hoping for a bit of connection in the morning. Knowing I wasn’t capable of even a
few minutes meaningful of conversation, I encouraged him to get an earlier
start on his trip than he’d planned. It didn't make any sense for him to hang around, with the way I was feeling.
Alone, it was a
little easier to face the complicated tasks that lay ahead—picking
up the dog’s leash, for example, and putting it on the dog; pulling the door key from my pocket,
inserting it in the front door and turning, then walking out to the sidewalk
with the dog. These things are not hard, but this morning they seemed far too
much for my brain and body. It was as if my surroundings were a giant boulder and I’d
woken up as Sisyphus—yes, again, this morning, again. My soul and the world were not one.
It
was a day for doing everything slowly. After I managed by a small godsend to make
myself coffee, I opened the story I was working on and wrote at a meandering
pace while I ate an apple, setting aside the goals I’d had for getting certain
things written. An hour or two passed while I inched along like a sloth, and I
dropped my plans of doing errands. It wasn’t that I was tired so much as it
felt like my brain was living in one world and my body in another, and how was
I to get the two of them together into the car, and after that go shopping?
I
do a kind of mind-body therapy called Self Regulation Therapy (SRT), and my angel
of a therapist calls this feeling dissociation. When we reach the point of
dissociation, the brain is simply overwhelmed with whatever’s going on in the body,
and often vice-versa. Which brings us to the question of why. Why today, in
particular, was I feeling what I was feeling? I had some suspicions. My Lyme
meds probably needed readjusting, for one. I don’t sleep well if I don’t have
enough Lyme medication in my body, and over the weekend I found myself wide awake at 3
a.m. I’d scaled up on one herbal tincture perhaps a little too much in order to get to sleep, so I probably now had an excess of toxins from dead Lyme bacteria in my body,
more than I could comfortably handle.
That might answer the question on the technical level, the Lyme disease level, but these
technicalities usually just leave me feeling rotten for a day or two. Why the
dissociation? At another level I knew it was my body’s reaction to too much stuff
going on--meaning not enough attention to the illness I’m
living with.
I tend to be reclusive, spending my days at home where I can write and at the same time hide
from all the loud noise and toxic fumes and demanding social interactions of
the greater world. At the end of the day, I usually come out of my turtle shell
and go for a long walk or swim with a friend, or to dance class. Then I come
home and eat insanely healthy food for dinner, followed by a 40 minute medical
routine that includes counting out three or four different herbal tinctures
drop by drop, mixing up powdered supplements, some in water, some in juice, taking a wide array of pills, making herbal teas that I will drink during the night, and finally giving myself
an injection. (Yes, it all seems crazy to me too, and I do it because it works and keeps me off antibiotics.) After all that medical stuff, I'm exhausted, so I go to bed.
But this year (the
year I am 42, for all the Douglas Adams fans reading this) the Universe has been
throwing me a few loops. The Universe has been coming on strong, messing with
my hermit-writer-chronic-illness-management routine. The Universe has been
asking me a lot of questions that have only one answer: Yes.
Would you like to take a week long, all day
writing class with one of your favorite authors?
Would you like to date an extremely cute,
intelligent, and interesting guy?
Would you like to get a literary
agent?
Would you like to be one of the lead
dancers at the start of the Fremont
And make your own dancing girl costume, with
feather headdress?
Would you like a visit from one of your
dearest friends that same weekend?
Yes
yes yes yes yes.
The
Universe threw in a few other socially demanding activities, like changing
roommates and hosting a fundraising party for said Solstice Parade—and then
just when it seemed things would chill out for the 4th of July,
instead I spent the holiday meeting many of the cute guy’s numerous relatives—well,
none of it’s been bad. In fact it’s all been pretty wonderful. It’s also quite a
lot for a quiet, reclusive, writerly-type.
It’s been as if Nigel
(to use another mythic number from pop-culture) has just cranked his
custom-made amplifier all the way to eleven and has kept it at eleven for
months and months.
It
was almost inevitable that one day I was going to wake up feeling dizzy. Instead
of errands, I had to slow things down, and do something that would allow my mind to reconnect with my body. I set my timer for thirty minutes
and did yoga at a lingering pace.
Calves-hips-breath-brain.
Brain-breath-torso-toes.
Brain, say hello
to Body. Body, say hello to Brain.
Inhale-exhale, bend
and straighten, and over again, as slowly as I needed. And then it came, the
connection. Everything felt awful. My brain hurt and my body felt like it was
made out of gray, murky, unpleasant muck. The dizziness was gone.
So why do it? Why
not just stay dissociated? Spaced out and dizzy isn’t so bad, right?
I know from
experience that no good will come of it. The spaced-out feeling only gets
bigger, until everything seems impossible, including all-important dancing and
writing, and the paramount of activities, sleep. And the reconnect, when it
does come, feels like Armageddon.
The reconnect
today was unpleasant, but only about a four on the scale of unpleasantness. Four,
you might ask, out of what? Well, I’m realizing I don’t know. The scale of unpleasantness
might go to eleven, or eleventy-one, or one thousand and eleventy-one. But I do
know that a four on the unpleasantness scale isn’t so bad. There was still plenty
of goodness around, and I was thanking it.
I thanked goodness
for the dishwasher—most beautiful invention!—and I thanked goodness for my own
particular dishwasher because it needed unloading, a realistic goal at that
moment, hard but not impossible. I thanked goodness for having a life that
allowed me to go at the slowest pace on days like these, plate by plate and
spoon by spoon. I thanked goodness for the dog, who keeps me company when it’s
too much to have people around, and soon I thanked goodness again for the dog,
who requires me to get up and walk a little bit every few hours, no matter
what. I thanked goodness for my house that can sometimes look a little disorganized
and shabby, but is always bright with daylight.
I thanked goodness for the backyard, full of things that grow, quiet and green.
I thanked goodness for the backyard, full of things that grow, quiet and green.
And I thanked goodness that I’ve been through days like these enough times to have faith it would get better. So I made my way through the next few hours, until it was time to rest. I lay down on the bed and listened to someone on a podcast read Michael Cunningham’s story, “White Angel,” and I marveled at Cunningham’s beautiful sentences. Before the story could come to its sad ending, I fell asleep—the kind of sleep that overtakes you with indomitable force, the kind of sleep that feels as heavy as iron dragged from earth’s core. I woke out of that deep blackness, realizing oh so gradually that I was myself: I was Noelle.
I was in my own
bed. I could feel the bed beneath me. (I think this is called coming to your
senses.) I didn’t even have to remind myself to be thankful for the bed. I just
was. I felt the thanks and the goodness throughout my body, a feeling of peace
and comfort between my body, my brain, and my surroundings. This is why it’s
important to slow things down, as hard as it can be sometimes--because there is simply no substitute for it, and because it makes all the difference.
