The Heart of Healing

March 8, 2018

 

I am starting this blog for several reasons.  First and foremost, I want show that there is a way out of the pain and darkness that so many people struggle with.  Make no mistake; many things I write about will be hard to read.  It is my intention to put you right in my experience of surviving these moments and days that seemed to stretch on forever and share with you the reader, what I have learned in the process.

 

Also, I am often asked by clients and students how I became the healer and energy channel I am today.  The short answer is “I did my work”.  The long answer I will try to pull together here from 25 years of research, practice and study that I undertook with a literal life and death urgency.  My survival was always at stake.

 

Lastly, I am starting this blog to help the understanding of those who know or love someone with serious trauma.  May this open a window into their struggles and help us all be more compassionate for those who are caught in the throes of a difficult past.

A memory of a dark time...

 

I had welded myself to the sofa for another night of watching TV and talking myself out of suicide.  I can’t lose focus for a second or I might lose the game.  I watch my every move and stay in control of my desire to destroy myself and end this miserable life.

 

“Breathe in, breathe out.”

“Don’t kill yourself.”

“Breathe in, breathe out.”

“Don’t kill yourself.”

 

I am standing at the kitchen drawer selecting a knife for carving my pain into the skin on my face.   She will finally see what she has caused me, finally understand.  My mother has always loved my face.

 

How did I get here?  Terrifying that I have no memory of deciding to cut myself.  No memory of getting up and walking into the kitchen and opening the knife drawer.  That has never happened before; I always thought I had to choose to give up, to give in.  Is this the night I lose the game? 

 

I had made of game of trying to survive.  I had made of game of trying to heal unbearable wounds and have a normal life.  A macabre game I could never win, but I would have to be utterly beaten by my pain and self-loathing.  I would never just give up.  Never.

 

Morning breaks.  I am so fatigued, so utterly spent, that my whole body aches and knots. I run for the toilet and retch from the bottom of my empty stomach. 

 

Looking at my reflection in the mirror I set my face in stone as misery and hopelessness leak from my eyes.  I shower and try to comfort myself with scalding hot water.  Try to lessen the pain I feel in every inch of me.

 

With an effort that feels like dragging fingernails down a chalkboard, I put one foot in front of the other and head out the door.  Driving to work I wonder if I will pass out at the wheel.  I wonder if I will die today. 

 

It doesn’t matter if I live or die.  All I have, all I have ever had, is my will to keep moving forward.  It doesn’t matter if I make it.  It only matters that I died trying.

I pull into the driveway hoping and praying today will be different.  That somehow I can overcome the cold and frightening fog that lies between me and the world.  Even my simple job is terrifying to me.

 

I am so afraid that today is the day they will all see past my cover.  I am afraid that they will all see me and know that I am broken beyond repair.  I feel the deepest cold, fearing that they will see me and know that I am so dirty and so retched that they have to turn away and leave me utterly alone.

 

Panicking I become dizzy and struggle to stay up.

 

“Breathe in, breathe out”

“Don’t give in”

“Breathe in, breathe out.”

“Don’t fall…”

 

I focus on my feet and head for the employee entrance. Trembling, I fumble for my key and hope I haven’t lost it in the fog, again.

 

The voice in my mind is so merciless when I lose things or forget something that should be easy to remember.  I tear myself apart with the open brutality of a pair of pliers. 

 

The parts of my mind owned by my past are well trained to continue the abuse of my childhood. My mind is indoctrinated by propaganda that dates back to my earliest memories, reinforced by my grandmother’s pincher grip and my mothers habit of leaving me places, with strangers.

 

“Breathe in, breathe out”

“Put the key in the door”

“Breathe in, Breathe out”

“Open it and go inside.” 

At the time it was all I had. I didn't recognize it as a powerful spiritual practice, but living one breath to the next with my life hanging in the balance acutely focused me on the present. The intensity of my process led me straight to the heart of healing.

 

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