Abandoned

They stand like witnesses to a lost era. Solid brick, lines still nice and square. I wonder if new floors and windows would be all they need, these abandoned houses. Who used to live there? Why did they leave? Why did no one buy a nice 2 story brick home? What led to the boards and the warning placards and the decay?

I suppose I could ask myself these same questions. Long ago, I chose to abandon myself just like an old brick row house that had long since passed it's purpose. I left emotions and being and conviction behind and I followed the paths others had broken ahead of me. I suppose that's how I became a nurse instead of a doctor: a PhD prepared professor instead of a clinical degree; how I became a mother quite by accident but slowly and surely let those responsibilities slide into the abyss of incapacity and unwillingness.

I sit in front of the 16th floor window.  The one that, ironically, still opens out to the street. The pavement glistens with rain many floors below and I am mesmerized. Somehow in this hotel room, accusations and invalidation have taken root once again; somehow, nothing else seems to matter.

But tomorrow WILL contain happy moments, carefree moments, even moments of satisfaction and fulfillment.  I WILL make it. My brain has tried to kill me before, and so far it doesn't fritz out badly enough that I lose myself completely.

So I walk away from the window and decide this is not about my own ugliness or failures at all - it's about those pathways in my brain that were ridden so often the pavement is wearing off. It's those slippery pathways I slide inexorably into, sometimes because of a single thought ("I'm not good enough" or "my place in this person's life is meaningless").

Today I'm paving new pathways. Today I refuse to slip into old patterns. When the ugly thoughts come, yes, I still think them. But somewhere mid-thought I realize I'm headed down that pathway again, and I stop and reassure myself and climb back up the hill to self-compassion. My therapist says eventually it will work. Eventually, if I train my brain to toss those useless, fictional thoughts, slowly I will go free from the prison of my own mind. Maybe someday, my brain won't try to kill me anymore.

Utopian? Yes. Unrealistic? Yes. Worth trying? Yes.

Progressing to exposure

I watch a ladybug lazily climbing towards the flowers. I don't know if this is her top pace or if the sun has made her drowsy. She inches along, bit by bit. This is me, I think. Inching along. Barely making progress. Feeling the "two steps forward, one step back" process is going too slowly.

Reprocessing is the next step in my therapy journey. This technique holds onto the hope that, if you talk about it enough, a memory loses it's power over your present and future. Before I began this part of therapy, I was very nervous about it. I held it at arms length, even thinking about refusing to participate at all. I also noted that I was self-sabotaging the very process that offered me the best chance at recovery.

Now it's started, and the debate is over. Two weeks of it brings a reduction in flashbacks and a return to somewhat normalcy. I wake up today, knowing it is therapy day, and there's that nervous excitement brewing in my belly. My heart speeds up in anticipation. My palms are cool and clammy. There is something about knowing a little surge of relief is coming. It cracks open the outer shell and tentatively tilts the tender to the sun. 

In hoc signo vincit

It's hard to pick up a habit after you've dropped it. And hard to stop it once you've given in to the habit, hook, line, and sinker. Yoga was part of every day since April - until I got diagnosed with Lyme's disease in late August. Today is the first day I felt well enough to roll out my mat and get to work again.

I have a goal indelibly connected to the rubbery lines of that mat, a dream to play hockey again this fall. I have to drop a few pounds and gain a whole lot of flexibility to fit my goalie breezers again.

But my practice of yoga goes far beyond a physical goal. It is a time of meditation between God and I. It is teaching my children a peaceful form of exercise easiest for the littlest or oldest person to do in a modified way. It is my well of peace in the midst of the chaos of the day.

Today we used the mountain pose in my therapy session, a way I can feel strong when really I am so weak. The mountain pose is a strong, stable, unmoving pose. I am going to use that pose at the end of each reprocessing session to ground myself and remind myself that I am a strong, courageous, world-wise 32 year old, not a 7 year old girl. The mountain pose and the words I say with it will be my anchor, so that I can climb the rope out of the drowning of my past and up into the fresh air of adulthood.

"I am strong through Christ who lives in me. Through His work in my heart, I can do good works. From His hand flow blessings that paint my life with joy."

I'm praying this final step - reprocessing old memories - is the final key to my freedom from the cage I've lived in for so long. Today I feel as though the door is open, and I am timid, sitting on my swing and singing but not yet going free physically. I am afraid. I hope that the reprocessing, the mountain pose and my mantra change that and I truly fly free this time. "Habeas corpus. Vincit omnia veritas. In hoc signo vincit." (You have a right to your body. The truth conquers all. Under the shadow of the cross I will conquer.)