Healing is Hard

Healing is harder than I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, when I first received my POTS diagnosis, I understood I was at the beginning of a long, windy road to recovery, one filled with bumps and detours and a tedious chain of obstacles. I knew this process would take time, patience, and an unspeakable amount of grit, that it would be far from easy and incredibly grueling. But I guess I unconsciously assumed that once I began feeling physically better, the rest of my troubles would wither away. I assumed that my biggest struggles were solely physical, so once my health improved, I’d be ‘all better again’. Lately, I am learning, this couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Up until a few weeks ago, I held a narrow notion of healing, one that revolved around a peace and mending of the body and mind, characterized by a centeredness and calmness while involving a hefty amount of therapy, meditation, and organic green juice. And while there is some truth to all of this, I’m learning that healing looks and feels different for each individual person, that it’s just as psychological as it is physical. Healing can be a long, snotty cry in your room, the act of doing something you’re scared to do, or giving yourself permission to feel emotions you’ve ignored or pushed away. Healing can be spending time with friends, feeling the warm breeze against your skin, or it can be the making of hard sacrifices, putting your health first yet again for what feels like the millionth time.

There is a part of me that was surprised to find that the process of healing is incredibly messy. In fact, for a while, I assumed I must be doing it wrong, as if there is any “right” or universal way to heal. I approached my recovery the same way I approach life, with an impulsive need to embody perfection. I wanted my uphill battle to be brisk and linear, free of any detours, slips of the foot, delays or distractions. I wanted my worst days to live behind me, to stay behind me and for good, and I wanted to catapult myself into wholeness and good health. When I first got diagnosed that warm December day, I wished to slingshot myself froward, to find some magical remote that would fast forward me to the good part, to the part where I’m all better again.

It’s easy to be mislead from the reality of healing when the process is sounded by words like “journey” and “inner peace” (not to mention the fact that these terms are almost always used alongside sparkle, heart, and star emojis). These misconceptions are reinforced when outsiders only see half of the picture, when insight comes in the form of staged photos of victories and celebrations and not the day in day out trudge that encapsulates chronic illness. Let this be your daily reminder that there’s always more to someone’s story than the snapshot you see. In the words of my favorite quote, “You never know what people have to go home to. Be kind.”

Over the recent months, I’ve learned that even as my health improves, feeling physically better is only an aspect of the healing process. The damage chronic illness does to the psyche runs deep, and it takes time to process the loss, events, and emotions that come along with getting sick. When I was at my worst, I didn’t even have the energy to form opinions on what I was experiencing (other than “this f*@*$&! sucks”…) because I was too busy trying to stay strong and salvage the scraps that were my life. Now that I’m doing better, all of these unfelt emotions are waiting for me, as if I’ve returned from a disastrous vacation to find my home infested with roaches.

As complicated as these unprocessed emotions can be, at the worst of it, my illness had a way of simplifying my life; when my energy was scarce, my priorities were clear. Meanwhile, my symptoms acted as a form of guidance, managing my schedule and dictating my days. Feeling tired? Rest. In pain? Lie down. Dizzy and nauseous? Head to the couch. The more constant these symptoms became, the more I got used to feeling that way. Being unwell became my new normal, and at some points, it was simply expected. Now that I have more energy, it’s almost an unusual sensation as for the past three years of my young adult life, I’ve been crippled by chronic fatigue. At times, it now feels like I’m traveling without a roadmap, or that I’ve acquired a lucky lottery ticket but don’t want to spend my loot too soon.

The switch towards learning to live with my symptoms was, in a way, just as hard as being succumbed to them. Instead of surrendering, I had to pick up my sword and muster the courage to fight again. Integrating myself back into “normal” life is definitely harder than I want it to be, and it feels as if I’m walking into an unbearably bright summer day after spending sixth months in a cold, dark movie theatre. It’s reasonable to assume my eyes need some time to adjust to the light. After all, I’ve spent quite a bit of time fumbling around in the darkness.

The more energy that has returned and the less intense my symptoms become, the more possibilities there are on how to spend my days. With this newfound possibility comes a plethora of unknowns, and sometimes all the uncertainty can be frankly overwhelming. What will I do next with my life? Am I spending this energy wisely? Productively? As fully as I can? Will I do something meaningful with my improved health? Make something purposeful of this pain? The pressure to know these answers is heavy, and sometimes I struggle under the weight. The more progress I see in my recovery, the more pressure I put on myself to have my life all figured out.

Healing is hard. It’s harder than I thought it would be. It’s harder than I wanted it to be, and sometimes it’s harder than what I think I can manage. The good news is, I’ve made it through all my worst days so far (with an impeccable track record, may I add…). The bad news is, I’ve still got a ways to go with discomfort, difficulties, and unprocessed grief waving at me from a distance. I’m bound to catch up with them soon, and sometimes that tempts me to swerve off the recovery road, driving far away from the inevitable without ever once looking back. But other times like today, where I had a lovely morning at the pool, floating in the water and looking up at a clear blue sky, I think to myself “Look at how far you’ve come” feeling oh so lucky to be here, floating and alive.

There’s no denying that healing is hard, hard work. But some days, it’s beautiful too.