Tag: mental health

Healing is Hard

On August 23, 2020

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.

A gif of an Angry Bird being launched by a slingshot.

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.

A picture of Homer Simpson, carrying the roadmap I wish I had.

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.

In My Dreams

By howellsalli

On June 24, 2020

In Uncategorized

The peach is fuzzy. Firm. Extremely unripe. The microscopic hairs tickle my fingers as I place the summer fruit back in its cardboard crate. I take a few steps, eyeing the bright red strawberries that have never smelled sweeter when suddenly, I am filled with an overwhelming desire to fall to the floor. The mild dizziness that typically lives tamely in the background fills my body in full force, panic creeping in as I quickly realize I am too weak to finish my shop. The fresh strawberries blur into scarlet spots, filling my vision with red as anxiety seeps out my body in small droplets of perspiration. My mind is racing almost as fast as my heart, swarmed with questions like, “What’s going on? What do I do, and where on Earth can I sit down?” There’s not a chair in sight. Do I leave my cart and try to make it to the car? Am I closer to the entrance or the exit? How long have I been standing here and can anybody help me? The thumping of my heart echoes inside my head as my eyes shoot open, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Another bad dream. Another POTS dream. Leave it to my debilitating medical condition to turn a simple grocery store shop into a rattling nightmare.

Not many people would find grocery stores to be frightening places, but ever since I developed POTS, my subconscious is filled with fears of getting stuck in public settings, too weak and symptomatic to walk back to safety (i.e. my car, a bench, any available chair). Normally, I can contain the fear into a small hum of anxiety, nothing more than a stream of nervous thoughts that only exist when my body is upright. But due to the months I spent debilitated with no access to the medical care I needed, these fears are rooted strongly within me, even as my condition has improved through my current physical therapy treatment. These fears are rooted so deeply within me, they’ve started to appear in my dreams.

Although my anxiety about my condition has been cultivating for quite some time, dreaming about POTS has been a relatively new occurrence. In fact, as my illness spiraled out of control last September, my sleep fantasies were actually the one place I could be normal, unscathed by the medical condition that bulldozed through my life. For a while, my dreams were where I felt healthy again, putting me back into memories and feelings I could no longer experience during waking hours. Sometimes I’d dream I was standing at a dinner party, shoulders back, relaxed on my feet, wearing high heels and tight, glittery clothing as I charmed a circle of close friends. I felt confident and cool, attentive and successful, starkly different from the person I was forced into being during the day, who laid on the couch under crushing fatigue, binging show after show and staring blankly at walls. In my dreams, I could walk without my heart racing unbearably. I could stand for as long I wanted, without having to worry about dizziness or near-fainting episodes or how much time I had until my body gave out. In my dreams, I was a full, abled person, and for a few quiet hours each night, I got to be my old self again.

Picture of the moon and stars, found on Pinterest.

The more time I spent waiting for treatment and the more disabled I became, the more my anxiety about POTS settled into my subconscious, wedging its way into those precious hours of slumber and polluting the dreams that used to be cherished. That’s when the grocery store nightmares began, turning simple, everyday tasks into large medical disasters. That’s when quietly, I began to fear leaving my house, daunted and unsure of what could spark an assortment of symptoms. There was even a period of time where I’d unintentionally designated the couch as a “safe place”, a location where I was protected and nothing bad could happen to me. When I lied on the couch, there would be no dizziness, no heart palpitations or shortness of breath, no terrible collapsing episodes that sent me to the ER. Lying on the couch couldn’t exhaust me more than I already was, and without proper medical treatment, walking was a risk I often didn’t feel like taking.

When I was officially diagnosed with POTS, the slow process of acceptance began, and acceptance meant that the illness was now a part of me, even in my dreams. It was real, confirmed, prevalent now in all hours of the day. After my diagnosis, I started dreaming about having to tell people about my condition, talking about all the tasks I could and could not do and how much of my life had changed. In my dreams, I relived my losses all over again, stepping into stories I ached to shed like snake skin. I starting having nightly visions about sitting in coffee shops with old theatre directors, having honest, raw conversations with highly influential people from my teenage years, from my life before. In other dreams, I now had limitations. I no longer dreamt about performing in musicals or belting a song on stage, unless it was it tainted by a whirlwind of symptoms. I started to have nightly visions of myself sitting alone at my kitchen table, confined within my home while all of my friends enjoyed a summer day in my front yard, basking in the sun without me. POTS invaded my dreams like a belligerent foreign army, and even in this nightly time of rest, I could no longer take a break from my unwanted reality. My illness was everywhere I looked, like enemy propaganda, brainwashing me into believing it would always consume my life.

But a few nights ago, I had a dream that I was running. I started off wandering in a field of wildflowers, taking in the sharp scent of freshly cut grass blowing in with the breeze. The sun shined down on me like a spotlight, a golden, heavenly glimmer, a ray of light pecking my cheek like a tender kiss from God. For the first time in a long time, the sunny heat didn’t bother me, my body tolerating and enjoying the warm air that surrounded me. For the first time in a long time, I felt the urge to run. So I did. My sneakers hit the Earth beneath me, bouncing with energy, strong and stable. Even though my mind was timid, filled with cautious thoughts such as, “don’t push yourself” and “take it easy”, still, I was running. In this dream, I was myself again, but I was my new self. The one who had survived years of hardship and medical trauma. The one who was stronger for all she had endured, kinder and more resilient. The one who was healing, and had found a way to live beyond POTS, pushing it into the background where eventually, it would fade until it vanished. In that dream, I was suddenly the girl who had survived, the girl who had grown, the girl I work every day to become.

A few months ago, this dream would’ve been a nightmare. It would’ve been hijacked by symptoms: head spinning, heart pounding, my lungs unable to breathe. I wouldn’t have been able to smell the fresh grass, spring with strength atop the damp Earth, or feel the sunlight gently kiss my skin, tender and with care. The beautiful meadow would’ve seemed like Hell, the heat and pollen aggravating my illness as the adrenaline convinced my panicked mind that the world was surely collapsing in on me. I would’ve woken up from the dream in a horrible mood, grieving for all I’d lost and exasperated at all still beyond my control. But this time, after this dream, I woke up feeling inspired, thinking about all the strength and knowledge I’ve gained, and how much I’ve grown from the exhausted girl I was just a couple of months ago. This time, I woke up remembering my progress, trusting my path, knowing that even if I’ve got a ways to go, with time and hard work, I’ll surely reach the end of it.

When I left school last year, I dreamt about it every night for a week. Each time I fell into slumber, I’d transport back inside my college apartment, laughing with my roommates and relaxing on the couch, or I’d travel to a practice room, jamming on a piano, enjoying my favorite thing in the world. In my dreams, I picked up right where I left off, a busy, abled college student prepping for class and rehearsals. But each time I woke from these nighttime journeys, I’d find myself back in my childhood bed again, painfully overwhelmed by another empty day before me. Believe me when I tell you there are so many better things for a young adult to dream about than passing out in grocery stores, or crying about a diagnosis. But I have faith that one day, as I heal and change, my dreams will too. I have faith that one day the grocery store will be a little less daunting and a little more of a weekly nuisance, and that I’ll get to groan about the inconvenience of long lines with all the other shoppers around me, instead of feeling anxious about the lengthy vertical wait. One day, I will run again, and it won’t be just a dream. One day, I will become the girl I dream about, and she will become me.

“Hanging in There”

By howellsalli

On May 11, 2020

In Uncategorized

“How are you?”

The dreaded question. The lethal question. The loaded emotional landmine that’s constantly strewn about. It’s asked at the grocery store, at your therapist’s office, when you bump into an old friend in the middle of a busy parking lot. Sometimes, it’s a question we’re ready for. We’ve come up with some clever, creative way to deflect what’s really going on inside, or we brace it like an aggressive bust of wind, brave and unnerved. Sometimes, we’re not so ready. It catches us off guard, sends daggers into fresh wounds, and adds another layer of confusion to our frayed, dismantled lives. “How are you” is a question with various layers, used in various situations, for various different reasons. If you’ve ever found yourself hating this question, then this post is for you.

I’ve been asked this question a lot this past year. Often from people who knew I was in the middle of a grueling, tedious diagnosis journey, but also from people who were completely unaware of the unnamed, internal battle that completely uprooted my life. I grew to loathe this question and dread those three words because I never knew the right way to respond. The people-pleaser in me was too scared to be frank about how absolutely not-fine I was, and then there were other variables such as who was asking, where we were, how much time we had to talk; I wasn’t going to unload my emotional baggage in the middle of the grocery store to a mom of an old classmate I hadn’t seen since elementary school. She had frozen peas in her cart. I had a racing heart rate and limited ability to stand. That was not the time to unpack the unraveling of my old life. That was not the time to be honest.

A lot of times, I lied about how I was doing out of the sole purpose of convenience. It’s easier to stay on the surface of feelings when time is running short, when schedules are packed and rigid, and diving down to the depths of our darkness is an activity we don’t have time for. Other times, I lied to avoid derailing the conversation, or making friends uneasy about how upset I really was. Many people don’t know what to say when the response to “How are you?” is anything less than “fine,” and I wanted to prevent the lengthy awkward pauses, the stammering and searching for words that come when people grow uncomfortable. I was tired of my reality making people uncomfortable. So at some point, I locked the truth away. I stuffed it into the bottom of a drawer like a ratty old t-shirt, unfit to wear in public.

Sometimes I did try to be honest. I tried to tell my friends and family how hard it was to be at home, debilitated and overwhelmbed by an illness that at this point, was still unnamed. I tried to tell them how envious I was of other people who were still at school, living the life I wanted, and how difficult it was to watch the world go on without me. Sometimes my candor would open up the conversation, allowing a deeper connection to take place between us. But many times, especially with young people, I found they would freeze up, starkly unequipped to deal with these kinds of heavy conversations. My young college friends offered support and encouragement in the ways they knew how, and while their kindness and compassion deeply touched me, they usually didn’t have the life experience to fully understand and many of them felt pressure to know the exact, right things to say.

I wish I would’ve told them that I never needed a perfect, comforting response. I wish I would’ve told them that it wasn’t advice or encouraging pinterest quotes I was looking for, but someone who would show up, who would weather the storms with me and speak honestly about what they couldn’t understand. I didn’t need my friend to be my therapist, I already had one of those and a great one, in fact. I didn’t need to be told “everything happens for a reason”, and I also didn’t need constant reassurance that everything was going to be okay. Somehow, I had quiet hope that everything would eventually work out (emphasis on eventually…), it was just buried underneath mountains of grief and hurt and anger and exhaustion. I didn’t need someone to fix my problems (though that would’ve been nice…), I just needed a friend to help me ride the waves.

Somewhere along the path of constant “How are you?” and “How have you been?” questions, I started to cling to the response of “hanging in there.” To me, it was like a neutral, meet-in-the-middle kind of answer; an optimistic reply that would assure my friends I wasn’t falling into a massive, black pit of despair. It wouldn’t cause the blunt discomfort the response, “absolutely, utterly terrible” would create, and it was also kind of halfway true, so it wouldn’t be considered a flat-out lie. And so it became my go-to. I used it at the grocery store, I used it on texts from friends at college, and I used it on distant family members, careful not to cause any unnecessary worry about my progressively worsening, undiagnosed medical condition. It was safe, it was easy, but it was actually still a lie. Looking back, I despise those three words now. I wasn’t “hanging in there,” I was hanging by a thread, and hardly, at that.

Picture of an old conversation via text, showcasing one of my classic “hanging in there” responses.

While I understand my motives and am aware of the sometimes necessary convenience of the typical “fine” response, I regret not being more honest when people asked me “How are you?” I used “hanging in there” like it was a synonym for “barely holding on.” I clung to the phrase like it was a state of being I could reach, if I just said it often enough. But “hanging in there” is not for when an illness uproots and derails your life. “Hanging in there” is for twiddling your thumbs as your dinner heats up, or waiting a week and a half for your online shopping order to be delivered. As much as I tried to deny it, “hanging in there” was a lie, and one I still regret to this day.

So how am I now? I’m a bit of a mix between restless and hopeful. Somewhere in between frustrated and okay. I jump between these like a ping pong ball, never quite landing in one, but not getting stuck in one either. I still haven’t mastered the loaded “How are you?” question, and I often find myself jumping to the “I’m good!” response a little too soon. But I’m learning. I’m making room for not being okay, and letting go of expectations of what that’s “supposed” to look like.

And what about you? Are you “fine?” Are you “hanging in there?” Or are you absolutely positively terrible, taking your days breath by breath and hour by hour? We’re living in unprecedented times, and that can bring unprecedented feelings. But I urge you to invite it all in, to reject the convenient, comfortable answers. I urge you to have those hard, heavy, honest conversations because frankly, now we’ve got nothin’ but time.

Tag: mental health

Healing is Hard

Share this:

In My Dreams

Share this:

“Hanging in There”

Share this: