The Body Knows
As a child, I was taught not to feel things…not to complain and certainly not to say or do anything that would seem attention seeking, over dramatic- or worse, make my parents look bad. I was taken to the doctor for the basic stuff: vaccines to register for school, antibiotics for bad colds and infections- but my mother’s usual reaction was to just let things play out. I’m not sure if we ever even had health insurance. Fortunately, I was rarely sick- but if I needed to be cared for over a period of time, I was usually sent to Mom-Mom’s for chicken soup, rest and cake.
It was always a welcomed vacation because I knew I’d be fed and my laundry would be washed. I deeply appreciated the quiet and having my own bed.
I still feel a certain kind of peace from hearing the air conditioning click on in a house. A sound that I rarely heard in my house because, 1) It was expensive and, 2) We had 14 people living in a seven bedroom, three & a half bathroom home where everyone was always running in and out of the house and my dad didn’t want to “air condition the outside”.
Never learning how to listen to or trust my body, I’ve always tried to control my environment by leaning towards proactive activities like organizing & cleaning so that I could witness some kind of order that I created to feel better.
Symptoms of obsessive compulsive disorder began when I was small and have stayed with me through adulthood. Cleaning is therapeutic for me. When things are particularly stressful or I feel as if life is out of control, I spin around like a Tasmanian devil creating a model of perfectionism and structure. I patch paint scratches on walls, wash baseboards, sanitize surfaces with bleach & murphy oil soap…and I vacuum. A lot.
Dissociation was another tool I learned and sometimes still struggle with. When I get really angry, with nowhere to place my feelings, I usually shut down. It’s almost as if I leave my body after I experience what, for me, feels traumatic. I believe this is partly why I don’t remember certain periods of my childhood. The stress caused by these types of triggering situations can sometimes even make me stutter, mix up letters & numbers and be forgetful.
The body knows.
At 51 years old, I had never had a physical condition that would send me to a hospital for surgery. I had a few emergency room visits from accidents that left me requiring stitches as a kid, but this was different.
Last spring, I was diagnosed with a hernia. I noticed a sharp pain in my side when I reached up high in a cabinet for a mixing bowl. I nearly fell over from the warning. My body was talking to me. I thought it was strange. I casually mentioned it to my husband…but quickly dismissed it as not to worry him. Then, I chose to ignore it because I was “so busy” and didn’t have time to deal with it. I thought I probably just moved wrong…it was likely just a fluke phantom reaction…or a pulled muscle… nothing to worry about.
Months later, a friend had an issue with her appendix that put her in the hospital. I asked what her warning signs were. She shared that she felt sharp pains and was surprised that she needed emergency medical attention.
My pain was more subtle, but still, her situation pushed me to at least mention it to my doctor. After some tests… I learned that I did, in fact, have an issue that was going to require surgery and two to three weeks of recovery.
Anxiety filled my thoughts. How did this happen? What does it come from? Isn’t a hernia something that only happens to men? To overweight people? To people who aren’t healthy and active? How will I be able to take time off without things falling through the cracks? I don’t want to be a burden for others. How am I going to manage this?
Later, I talked to a teacher I had worked with in the past about my situation. She suggested that the spiritual solution to my hernia was to learn to create healthier boundaries. She asked if maybe I had been carrying other people’s stuff around for a while… sharing that, maybe, it all may have gotten too heavy?
Interesting.
The surgery went well. The recovery was tough. I tried to give myself permission to rest. I was bedridden for two weeks. The world didn’t stop. All of my needs were met. The people that care about me lovingly checked in or stopped by. I came to a place of acceptance. No small feat…all acts that, for me, required deep trust.
What does not heal, repeats. In this instance, I allowed myself to let go and do whatever I needed to do to heal. I recognized that maybe it was time to let all of the weight, that’s not mine to carry, go. Letting go of the patterns that were so deeply installed many years ago, opens the door for the story to continue to unfold. It’s nearly impossible to pick up new things when your arms are full.
It’s a process. New behaviors take time and a new perspective.
Today, my reality is a home that’s safe, nurturing, honest and loving. A place where I feel calm, respected and protected. A place where I know that things will be the same when I come home at night as I left them earlier in the day. It’s warm, clean and peaceful. The fridge is stocked with fresh, healthy food.
Accepting this truth can sometimes be hard because I’ve carried the past- and its patterns- with me for so long. It’s uncomfortable… like going through a surgery to cut out the bad parts… learning to replace the old with these newly found wisdoms… moving on to the flow of the next chapter in a more evolved way of being.
Getting quiet, noticing what’s going on around me & how my body feels… is now my most guiding place. I am grateful for the willingness to settle in & listen.
