I have have overcome from and healed a tremendous amount of pain, trauma, and
heartbreak in my 46 years. Eating disorder and addiction recovery, major depression,
debilitating anxiety, two horrific divorces, fighting for my life, and much more that I don’t
speak publicly about. I have emerged from each pit of darkness stronger, wiser, more
resilient, and with more tools to help others on similar journeys. So, I’m confident the
latest experience with my mental health will ultimately be no different. But the searing
pain of the past 30 days, and its effect on my physical body has most definitely been
unprecedented.
The word pain doesn’t actually do it justice. I’ve been in plenty of pain. I’m not sure
there are words to accurately describe this grief. The best I can come up with is — it’s
as if something inside me with knives is clawing and shredding the inside of my chest
and throat while a boulder sits unmovable on my abdomen making it nearly impossible
to breathe. I know I can go on and I will go on because I’m a mother first and foremost,
but to be honest, most days I have not wanted to.
In the first few days, my hair started falling out in clumps, and my ponytail is currently
about half the thickness it was a month ago.
I couldn’t keep any meaningful solid food down for the better part of the first two weeks.
If there’ anyone who knows how important nutrition is for mental health it’s me, but my
body simply rejected it and up it came — almost as if it was digesting too many heavy
emotions to be able to digest food. I could keep liquids down, so I kept calories up by
adding tons of healthy fats and extra carbs to multiple protein smoothies a day, but still
the number on the scale plummeted to something I haven’t seen since I was a teenager.
Besides the understandable pain in my throat, chest, head, and abdomen, I started
experiencing inexplicable pain in seemingly random parts of my body like my feet and
pelvis.
Before I go into how different this emotional healing journey has looked for me so far, it’s
probably important that I share just a bit about what it has looked like before.
“Strength Through Adversity” has basically been my life motto — partially due to early
programming which told me strength was admirable, and weakness was not. I was
raised in a solution-based, fix-it type of family, and I’ve always been a “bootstraps” kind
of girl. When I fell (or got pummeled) to the ground, the process was simple: rise up
with confidence, identify the problem, determine what caused it, find a solution, and
learn from your mistakes. While I still believe these are all valuable strategies, I either
didn’t receive, or somehow didn’t integrate any messaging on the critical importance of
honoring the emotions that come with along with the fall.
Only since getting sober have I realized that difficult emotions are more than necessary
nuances in life, hurdles to be pushed aside or climbed over on your way to being
stronger, wiser, and more valuable. I always thought the faster I went through the
aforementioned process, the faster I could get back on my path.
But I started to realize that even in sobriety I was bypassing emotions. When “irritable,
restless, and discontent,” I was taught to look toward the acronym HALT (Hungry, Angry,
Lonely, Tired) and take the next right action. Hungry? Eat. Tired? Take a nap. And if
you’re lonely or angry (and I supposed all the other painful emotions) just focus on
gratitude, pray, and go find someone to help. All these are important things to do, but
they can also become distractions from these critical messages called emotions if you
don’t also properly attend to them.
Until recent years, the only “emotional processing” I did was in cognitive behavioral
therapy. CBT had its place for a while, but ultimately, I was bypassing or trying to
change emotions more than I was processing them. For me, trying to shift the negative
thought patterns and their associated behaviors expecting the emotions to shift from
negative to positive was like white knuckling my way through not picking up a drink; it
was arduous and unsustainable. I continued or decades because it was better than
doing nothing, and I didn’t know what else to do, but it was like pushing up a boulder
that kept falling back. I believe part of the reason CBT lacked staying power for me was
because it was solely working on my conscious mind, which was just a fraction of the
healing that needed to take place.
Things really started to shift and open up for me in recent years using EMDR and
hypnosis to reprogram and heal my subconscious, and by using the Internal Family
Systems model to honor and provide safety for the parts of me having difficult thoughts
and emotions rather than try to stop them. With these modalities, I added a missing
layer of subconscious healing, and I changed my approach to the conscious healing.
What I did not realize until now was the degree to which these emotions were actually
stuck in my physical body (despite being familiar with the saying “The issues are in your
tissues” from decades of practicing yoga). After all, I prioritize consistent physical
activity, chiropractic, and massage, (and do intermittent breath-work and sound
healing), so I assumed I was taking care of all the physical stuff.
When the first tsunami of pain took me down a month ago, I knew I needed to do things
differently. I knew I needed to sit in it longer and process it more deeply. The pain was
so intense and relentless the first few weeks I actually don’t remember much. Luckily, I
was journaling because I knew I would want a report and a roadmap for the next time.
Here’s how I’ve been structuring my healing so far:
1. Compartmentalizing my grief.
This took a few weeks to stumble through, and the first week it was simply
impossible because I was incapacitated and in no way in control of my emotions.
I’m a single mom, and I imagine it would be scary for many adults to witness me
in that state, let alone my 15-year-old boy. On the other hand, I don’t want him to
end up with the same messaging around emotions I did. I’m not sure there’ a
right or wrong way to navigate grief as a single mom in recovery from alcohol
addiction (or any mom for that matter) with children because there’s no
handbook. I do know I’m doing the best I can.
Fortunately, my higher power did me a solid — week 1 was my ex-husband’s
custodial week with our son, so I had plenty of space for deep grief without him
around. Nevertheless, he did see me melting down several times since he likes
to pop in randomly to go to the gym or grab a healthy snack. In those few
moments, I was able to explain that grief and sadness are normal healthy ways
to feel, and that I will survive and be stronger on the other side. I reminded him of
some of the painful things I have navigated, and I told him this time would be no
different.
He got to see me take off the grief hat for a moment and find the strength to take
him to the gym and out for smoothies. He also got the see the waves of emotion
come over me without notice and watch me shamelessly allow the tears to start
flowing again regardless of where we were. This gave us the chance to talk
about how healing isn’t linear, how it knows no time, and how sometimes
emotions are meant to be uncontrollable. The following week I was better able to
save the grief for times when he was at school. I found that if I spent enough time
inside my emotions and my body during the day, I got myself to a point of near
numbness where I could function better. At least until the next wave hit.
2. I sought professional help.
I immediately scheduled emergency sessions with my old CBT therapist, my new
EMDR therapist, my chiropractor, and my Reiki practitioner. The CBT was really
just a box to check and one more person to hold space for me in this isolating
emotion. In EMDR I received some integration and processing of some old
unprocessed grief. This process continues to unfold. I remember very little about
the reiki or chiropractic, and I didn’t journal about either experience, but I trust
that the energy and bodywork I received was exactly what I needed and is
contributing in some way towards my healing.
3. I vigilantly attended to my nervous system and my soul.
On top of prayer and meditation, I incorporated at least 1 hour a day of various
somatic healing techniques with specific intention of processing emotion through
my physical body. This was usually some combination of breath-work, abdominal
rolling, lymphatic massage, tapping, vagus nerve stimulation, and myofascial
release.
4. I never missed a workout.
Of all the tools I use to stay mentally and emotionally fit, this one has had the
biggest and most consistent impact on my mental health. I knew I needed to
move even though it felt impossible. I shamelessly sobbed through many
workouts. I was forced to come significantly down on my weights, and I was still
unable to complete most of them. But I showed up for all of them.
5. I spent time outside daily. EVERY SINGLE DAY.
Sometimes I couldn’t walk. I could only sit in a chair by the pool or on the beach.
Sometimes I walked in silence, listening to m own sobs, gripping my chest, and
praying for a deep breath. Sometimes I listened to podcasts on relevant topics in
attempt to feel less alone, or to distract myself at least momentarily from the
physical sensations I couldn’t tolerate one more second.
6. I asked for help from friends and family.
My parents drove back down from NJ to be close by if I needed them. They
brought smoothies and got smoothie ingredients for when the day came that I
was actually capable of assembling them in my blender. My mom held me while
I cried. She didn’t try to solve anything because I asked her not to.
I scheduled brief daily human contact with at least one friend — a walk, a yoga
class, lunch, coffee, the gym. It didn’t matter what we did, because I sobbed
through most of it anyway — it just gave me a brief reprieve from the gripping,
searing intensity of holding the pain alone.
This was a big deal for me because I’m an introvert and an empath with an
extremely chattery mind. The never-ending demands of owning a business and
being a single mom coupled with all the energy I feel from other people can
sometimes be a bit overwhelming. During overwhelming seasons,
I lean more into solitude to come back to myself and feel grounded. It has taken decades for
me to learn and embrace this about myself, and typically it's an intentional
strategy for my mental health. But I knew that that this was not the season for
isolation. I needed people around me to help me hold what I was holding.
So, in the first week alone, I spent over 6 ½ hours on the phone with my mom.
And one incredibly special trusted friend and spiritual partner spent 2 total hours
on the phone, 6 hours in person, and over 2 hours total voice texting back and
forth with me. That’s a lot of space to hold for one person, and I can’t express
enough gratitude for them. On week 2 I started reaching out to other friends as
well.
7. I used other alternative spiritual tools besides prayer.
The effects of these were possibly minor, but I also found unexpected comfort
and solace in the explanations and hope offered through pulling tarot cards and
listening to current astrology podcasts. I don’t know enough about these things to
make much sense of them or understand them in any meaningful way, but I’ve
always been intrigued by their mysterious relevance to my current situation. In
this grief I found their explanations and hope to be more tangible than prayer.
Although believe me I’m still praying. The serenity prayer and the thirds step
prayer are my regulars.
8. I attended to my recovery
I increased my 12-step meeting attendance back up to daily. Again, I need to be
surrounded by people who understand pain and will welcome me in any state
and just hold space.
9. I added extra supplements
Lemon balm, Ashwagandha, GABA, to name just a few. I doubled up my adrenal
support and my plant powders. But it wasn’t enough, ad I did have to get on low-
dose antidepressants as well. This was not a decision I took lightly because as I
said, I didn’t want to bypass or numb my emotional experience this time. But the
inability to eat or sleep and the inescapable, overwhelming darkness of my
thoughts were concerning and unsustainable.
Medication took several weeks to get into my system which was a significant
space to fully feel. Did I feel fully for long enough this time? I guess I’ll never
know for sure, but one thing I do know is that even though the physical pain may
feel less sharp and stabbing, I am usually able to breathe more deeply, and I can
finally keep solid food down and my weight it coming back on, I am most
definitely not numb. I am still experiencing an incredible amount of pain and
heavy emotions.
I have had several days where things feel lighter and my emotions seem more
manageable. On those days, the truth that I have known consciously — that this
experience will somehow be for the greatest good and part of a bigger plan —
feels integrated on a deeper subconscious level, and my heart seems better
aligned with my brain. Then with no warning or explanation as to why (I do the
same things every day) the tsunami of darkness takes me down and I find myself
weeping uncontrollably.
Writing this was cathartic but I was hesitant to post it because I’m not even close to the
other side of it. I’d rather wait until I’m all tidied up and full of wisdom and hope to share.
But the fact is that this human existence is messy by its very nature — in fact, for me it
has been messier more than it has been tidy. And in the interest of mental health
awareness month, I figured I’d share the beautiful mess that I currently am. I may not
know how long it will take or specifically what the journey will look like from here, but I
know the only way is through, and one day I will be on the other side. Without taking a
drink. With more experience, more tools, more wisdom, and more hope to share.
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