Awkward Tales from the Shadows- Pain Contemplation

‘You deserve to be pain free.’

This statement has been sitting with me for a few days. A simple statement. One that felt like it had been in a foreign language I had never heard. I hadn’t realized until that moment that I hadn’t believed it to be true. A statement that pierced something deep- my reflex was to just talk/excuse over it. But here it sits, still rolling around my brain like a loose marble.

These last few years have been really hard on my body. I have been hard on my body.

My mental health monsters cause physical pain.

Past and current injuries sometimes sing in unison, sometimes compete for the lead.

There is not a day where I am not aware of something, burning, aching, stabbing, tightening….

It is not as though I don’t do anything for the pain I feel.

But the levels are now consistent and high enough that over the counter pain relievers don’t do a lot.

I still use them, along with multiple other things to help keep me functioning in my life. I use hot and cold, stretching, topical potions, cbd/thc and massage. Most giving me a few hours of decreased pain, massage being the one that brings better, longer relief, yet still temporary. The one thing I haven’t added in was any form of prescription pain relieving narcotic.

I have a complicated history with most pharmaceuticals. They often don’t do what they are meant to in my body. My genetic history is riddled with mental health and addiction markers. I am very reluctant to use strong pain relievers, especially in the opiate family.

‘You deserve to be pain free’

So why did this statement hit me so hard?

It was nothing I had considered before. My reasoning makes sense in many ways. Worry about side effects, cost and the biggest worry falling into addiction. It has me contemplating my hard stance.

That statement reminded me it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. That with care, consideration and proper support, it is an avenue that may be of service to me.

That gentle statement has led me to contemplating more…..

Do I punish myself? Am I resigned to carry this physical discomfort with restricted relief.? Why is this ok? How do I allow this with myself? Do I feel supported? Where do these barriers come from……

Deeper into the shadows I go for more answers.

When the Levee in My Head Breaks

The screaming in my head leaks out

Every sensation amplified and painful

Control is lost

Monsters move in

I can’t speak words

I cry, rage, fear, disappointment

Irrational

Shaking till it feels like I will explode

Curl tighter and tighter into that ball

‘I’m sorry’ are the only words that can be made of out the mush in my mouth

Why sorry?

For all the things I’ve ever (not) done

For breaking

For being

What triggered this? You want to know- all of it, none of it- the crowded loneliness in my head

The work I’ve done, today feels for naught

I am so far away- what do you need? I’m asked. I don’t know -comes the swift reply

I need this to stop

I need to be truly heard

I need quiet in my head

I need the pain to go away

I need the weight of responsibility lightened

I need to be held together till the shaking stops

I need it to be recognized it was never all mine, even though I took it, it was never all mine

Not praise nor encouragement for accountability

But understanding it’s too much and it was never all mine

I make a deal with the monsters, they can have their space,

just give me enough clarity to keep one foot in front of the other, a thought or two and a dry eye when others are near.

Fix the mask once more- temporarily hope it holds. Ignore the discomfort, swallow the bile building in my stomach.

Let’s just play pretend on more day.

Awkward Tales from the Shadows- Start Point

Other stories on this blog do a decent job of explaining a few things about me. As this journal progresses I imagine so much more will be revealed. But a little back story to what brought me to this ‘start point’.

I’m firmly entrenched in midlife, chronologically but in my head I still feel like I’m in my early 20s- I’d like to think that is perpetuated by my eternal curiosity.

I had a lot of trauma in my younger years. I have GAD ( generalized anxiety disorder) and CPTSD, those two combined at time are a big rollercoaster of hellish fun.

I struggle with chronic pain, some resulting from my mental health issues, some from old injuries and sadly I’m sure some is a little from age.

I am a practicing Pagan, a Grey Witch ( if such a title is needed).

I am a survivor of rape and abuse.

I work as a massage therapist, energy healer, teacher, tarot reader, intuitive and writer.

I am a mother to an incredible teen daughter and a biological mother to an amazing young man.

I am a wife, sister and friend.

I am amazingly strong and easily hurt.

I have hope that seems to stay like a beacon of light even when I feel taken down by despair

How did I come to the ‘dark night’ awakening?

I can not pin point one moment, but a cascade of things.

I dreaded my 40s for as long as I could remember, a fatalistic view really. My mother died at 44, I was 12. That death shadow hung over me, somewhere in my head I had always believed I too would be gone young. To that end, I did enough for my mental health to ‘survive’ to keep a lid on all the poison. I had fooled myself into believing I had a handle on my ‘stuff’. Because honestly could someone who didn’t ‘have it together’ how could I achieve so much?

I thought I had begun to do positive work, building a strong life.

Just after my 45th birthday there was a tipping event involving betrayal, abandonment, humiliation and a break down of self.

I was so lost, just trying to make it through the day and fill the expectations of the roles I play. My anxiety was getting worse, social anxiety symptoms that I hadn’t experienced in years took me down hard. To complicate matters, within a year, as a planet we entered a pandemic that is ongoing and we are feeling the acceleration of the effects of climate change. The darkness and fear was closing in. The grasping of things, friends, comprise of self, use of substances for escape all becoming a sand trap I was silently drowning in.

The cross roads epiphany struck like lightening ‘work through this, find your life spark or face soul and/or real death.’

First came the stacks of books, workshops and podcasts. I journaled, I had recognitions, insight and so much, however the amount of information and emotion surfacing became overwhelming.

Then the inner knowledge I need help filtering the all information in relation to myself. Due to the tipping event I did not feel that anyone in my circle was a reliable source of deep support. Also knowing that I was entering a place of really wanting to be able to observe myself with a ( hopefully loving) critical eye, professional help was needed. This was hard for me, I had not done therapy since I was a kid, I’d always believed I was self sufficient/smart enough to work through my things with books, workshops and podcasts. Finally making that decision, I was choosing self love. The Shadow work was really about to take a deep direction.

And so it began…

What is ‘Awkward Tales From The Shadows’ about?

Hello readers,

Until now this blog has been a stream of consciousness for me, often revolving around my battles with anxiety, some poetry and a few political rants. I’m going to add a couple of other streams of writing. I’m searching for my bravado to start adding some of my fiction to this site, and that will come. But the newest addition is going to come in a journal type format.

It will be identified under the heading of Awkward Tales from the Shadows. This is my journey of healing, determination, acceptance and accountability.

I am aiming to have a narrative about what I’ve actually been doing to work through my dark night ( well a three year night, but who’s counting) of the soul. The Shadow work I’ve undertaken, the revelations that have come from therapy, the revelations that have come from diving into my Pagan spiritual work and the physical work I am undertaking and how all of these things intersect in the relationships I have with others and myself.

I do not have a degree in psychology, I am not a doctor, what works for me, may not be suitable for you, dear reader. I am not writing this as a how to guide, each of our journeys and needs are unique, there is no shame in medications, therapy or any other help or healthy tools you need to grow in your life.

The truths are mine, the perceptions are mine. The losses and victories are mine.

Some people won’t like this, and that’s ok. This isn’t for them. I’m not writing this to punish or blame anyone- we all affect each other. I will not name people outright. But if they’ve had a part in my journey, for good, bad, ugly or a combination of all, then they will appear here. There are wonderful moments and people that have also had an enormous effect in shaping who I am. These are just as important to acknowledge as the trauma side of things. There are things that have happened to me that were not fair, kind or wanted. I do not have false gratitude for these events, but what I am working on is appreciating what I have been capable of doing to survive.

I’m on a mission. For myself, for my children and for anyone that may find a kindred spirit or inspiration in what I’m doing. This may not be easy, it may not be pretty, but I also know it will not all be heavy and dark.

“Share your knowledge. It’s a way to achieve immortality. One learns so much just from living a lifetime. Share that knowledge with the people you come across, it can only help them in their journeys. Even more important, share your failures so that others will not repeat them.” Jordan Lejuwaan

Waking in an Anxiety Attack

Wake up from a dead sleep

So many thoughts I can’t grasp one

No breath

Feeling I’m going to split apart

Gulping for air

Fear

The smallest I can go

Arms wrapped around my self

Knees tightly into chest

Nothing slows

The speed of every impulse rushing through

So fast it may just disappear

The fog of everything and nothing

Sickness rises

From a dream? From life?

Try to count

Try to focus

Try to pray

Lose track of the mantra I cling to, to tie me down

Muscles armour, the shell protecting the insides from coming out

Smaller still

Jaw so tightly clenched, small moans escape

Inside the skull deafening screams fill the void

In the darkness I wait for the light to return

Opaque

Where does this empty come from?

What am I looking for?

Maybe… it’s nothing? But it feels like everything

Why is the validation so needed- to prove I am here? I exist? I made a difference.

I imagine this is what a ghost feels like

A neat anomaly- presence sometimes detected

Rarely seen

Rarely heard

Do they go on day to day? Doing their ghostly things to keep them busy. Hoping for relief from the empty where they are stuck. Do they hang around to see if their existence made a difference? Do they feel the same there as they did in life?

Maybe I am a ghost. Doing ghostly things. Sometimes being heard by those who are sometimes sensitive- sometimes being seen when it’s time for parlour tricks.

The Risk of Speaking

When I was a child I don’t remember being comforted often when I would cry or was fearful. The few times I recall my Mother comforting me, would have been when my father was on a drunken tear, or we were on the run. When I was twelve and my Mother was dying I never really cried in front of anyone. Not even at her funeral. I tried hard to never complain. I was praised often for being strong.

Even before this, in my family, openly expressed emotion other than rage and anger was never safe. Rebuked for being pouty and weak, tears, pain and fear were to be kept hidden. Eggshells must be walked to keep this peace.

Then came the praise. ‘You’re so strong. We never have to worry about you, you just get on with it.’

No one helped me or showed me then, that sorrow, grief, fear and vulnerability are all acceptable and worthy of support.

This burying of emotion became a lifelong destructive habit.

Fast forward through added trauma of rape and abuse in my teens.

I can tell you with clear eyed accuracy what these events have done to me. But the open vulnerability, expressed pain, tears – that was only expressed alone, often late into the night. Curled in a ball, howling, searing pain, hot uncontrollable tears. The breaking moments often resulted in self harm, cutting, hitting myself until raw and bruised. Praying for death but not wanting to hurt anyone who might be affected by it. Eating until I was numb. Trying to gain control. Manic in achieving what no one believed I could.

But… ‘Hey, you’re so strong, look at you! You moved forward, away from it.’ Physically yes, but those monsters are beaten deep down into me.

No one saw me cry, or held me through the pain of giving my son up for adoption. Praised and congratulated for making such a wonderful decision, a needed and good decision. I’ve never regretted it, but as any mother knows the pain of separation from your child rips through you and you are not sure how you will survive.

More praise for my strength, my fortitude and my ability to make something of myself. This, I had read as, to not crack in front of anyone, to never really let anyone know that I don’t have it together, I am in pain or that I am unsure of what I can do.

Praise for my ability to be such a great open support for others. Always a shoulder, an ear, a firm unwavering hug as one would melt down and open up. I never blink, condemn or walk away from anyone in these moments. I give freely what I crave so deeply.

I cry in movies, tv shows, certain books have opened flood gates and being witness to other people’s tragedies can bring heartfelt tears quickly. I have the added good fortune of being an empath through and through. Often chided for being so affected by the things and people around me.

More praise for how open I am about trauma and my journey. The wonderment at what I’ve built, how far I’ve come, my ability to always have a survival plan when shit goes sideways.

Plaudits for being able to describe the inner battles with my mental demons and the hard painful darkness where my mental health battles take place. Yet- it is not allowable for anyone to see the physical release, the raw vulnerability of my emotions.

On the rare occasion the actual emotion bubbles out ( not the description, or the story after the fact), it is met often with

‘Don’t cry, I can’t handle that right now.’

‘You’ll figure it out, you always do.’

‘It’s not so bad.’

‘You’re strong, you’ll get through it.’

Well meaning most times, but reinforces in my head that I am not allowed this vulnerability, it (I) will be rejected.

My fear is that I will be abandoned, viewed as ugly, unhealed and unworthy.

The more praise I get for who I present that I am, what I do and my strength and compassion, the more stifled screaming in the shower, pinching and scratching takes place in the dark.

A few years back, there was a moment in time, that by circumstance and a series of things happened, triggered emotional responses I could not control. Significant losses coupled with burgeoning self realization cracked wide a firmly welded shut box of yuk. By some strange timing/alinement there happened to be a witness to these moments. It was someone I did not know well, but seemed to connect quickly to. At the time this person seemed to offer a non judgmental, safe friendship. I was not judged or stifled, I was validated and allowed the space to express. I felt like I had been heard and seen and not found to be disgusting. I had experienced a moment of safety.

This lasted a short time, as my fear was soon realized that this person, while kind at the time, eventually saw me as damaged and ugly… too much. I believe now, that in the instances I allowed my self the humanness, the vulnerability of raw expression in their presence, they felt trapped and forced to support.

There was a cold abrupt ending to this. I was too much. I had heard later from another, I had been actually seen as a triggering shrew. This was never said directly to me, just cold silence- no matter how I had tried to make amends. Falling into the old patterns of apologizing for my human failings and pain. Desperate to reclaim my value and worth despite the ugliness I could not hide. Again my monsters read this as proof, I am a helper not allowable to be helped. I have not openly wept in front of another person about how I am affected by life since then.

Please note- I am not relaying this to paint the other as intentionally hurtful or cruel, they too are to be given the grace of being human. I realistically understand most reactions (as are mine) are personal and a preset in that own person’s journey and I am not belittling this. However this is told from my perception and with lack of communication to understand the other’s point of view I can only operate from my own experience.

Fast forward a little more. I still share my journey, analytical, smooth writing, story sharing, describing emotion in order to connect with others ( a safe, removed way of partial vulnerability). Still open and unblinking in my support of others. Ready with space, a hug, acceptance of their dark, steady while their tears flow. I champion that expression and vulnerability to be allowable, acceptable and supported.

Those who’ve known me longest still praise the stoic. I’ve set up cycles where if my live emotion is detected it must be solved immediately to avoid inconvenience and discomfort.

After my most recent experiences in trying to find acceptance for my human reactions I collapsed deeper into distrust that I could find that safe space. I have been working on changing this, on being ok to risk that openness, but trust is a gossamer thread. When you open up and allow your vulnerability to be see by anyone and it is rejected, ignored, derided or completely trampled on, intensionally or not, it is devastating.

I asked once, why, when I ask for support or help I feel that I’m often denied the space, or my need is minimized. I was told I am at fault because I have set up the view that I can move forward and get through anything on my own. So no one believes I may need more.

My own survival techniques have failed me here- but my acting must be stellar.

I know there are beautiful souls who would offer me this grace and have. But the minute I perceive that they may allow me this, I freeze, stiffen and do not allow more than dry words to express where/how I am. No tears, no confusion, no real time release. No chance of rejection if I don’t allow it.

I don’t know how to change this. I don’t know if I have it in me to risk that part again. Yet I know how vitally important this is.

I am unafraid of seeing another’s deep wounds, but deeply afraid of showing the live versions of my own. I am working on this. I am hoping to be better at choosing the places where I will be safe. But for now this is my safest place. Flat descriptive words for sharing. Loud music and the shower for expressing.

I’m grateful to those who see me as safe and are willing to share. It is an honour to be a part of the journey. I’m grateful to those who read, converse with me and tell me they have space for me, when and if I am ever ready. But for now the risk of speaking triggers an immediate danger response I have yet to figure out how to cut the wires to.

I Am Not Ok

Today I broke.

It’s been along time coming, this is beyond the ‘ugly’ cry. This was pure unadulterated rage and disappointment.

Curled up in the corner of the tub, hot water running over me, mixing with the hot tears streaming down my face. The rhythm from the water providing a background to the guttural howl ripping through my throat

Today I can’t. Yet I have to.

Dangled carrot of some normality my brain is refusing, for fear of let down

Trying to reconcile how we treat each other vs the good game most of us talk

Crushed by the weight of constant uncertainty, distrust, disappointment

The chronic pain I thought I had a handle on, has been chipping away at my ability to do my self care, my life

Screaming into the void

Feeling like I’m saying the same thing over and over, on deafness it falls

Today wrap me in softness, sit with me, allow me to cry, allow me to rage, allow me to hurt and not feel guilty for it.

I’m not asking for a fix, I’m not wanting pity.

I’m not wanting to hear it will get better

I don’t want to hear how strong I am.

Today I’m asking to be heard, loved, validated as is. Because today I’m not ok.

15 Months

I see you.

It’s wearing on you. The things that have been emotionally and mentally pushing down on you are starting to seep out.

The mental exhaustion from not knowing from minute to minute what’s coming, what the right thing, the safe thing is to do.

The emotional weariness from bearing witness to the constant ignorance, violence and disconnect.

It is so full inside of you that you are numb, detached as a way of preservation.

Yet, there are dull headaches, your appetite is all over, sleep waivers between thick to nonexistent but no rest to be found. Restlessness but no drive.

And then the pain, this is a manifestation of the heart, soul and mind. Dull stiffness in the joints, a deep ache in the muscles, a sensitive tenderness woven into the skin.

Words can not replace soothing touch.

Electronics can not replace the energetic connections of being together. We are told ‘just a little longer’. Hollow sounds they’ve become

Some days are ok. Some days are hell.

I’m here with you. I see this. I feel this.

Pressure

You would have been 80 tomorrow. Mother’s Day was yesterday. It has been 36 years.

This is my background noise. Grief, a longing for something I may never have had. The forefront is just a mass of confusion. One I would like to talk to you about.

I thought I had an idea of who I was. I thought I knew the trajectory I was on. And as I sit here, in the ‘day between’ reminders, the month before the 37th anniversary of loss, all I can think is I don’t know.

I don’t know what comes next

I don’t know if I will ever be rid of pain

I don’t know what will happen with my career

I don’t know where I am going

I don’t know if I am parenting adequately

I don’t know if I can heal some of these old wounds

I don’t know who I am

The picture I created in my heart and mind of what I would be when I passed ‘the date’ (you know, the one where I finally became my own adult, the one where I out lived you)

It lasted for a brief time.

I was in adventure mode- I felt strong, unlimited, interesting, amused.

And as fast as that fire was lit- poof- it was dampened

Fear? Pushback? Fall prey to old patterns? Punishment?

I blurred my edges to try to fit. I did not know how to temper my excitement at feeling the most like me I had ever felt. So I apologized. I blurred. I asked. I apologized some more- but it was empty, I had gotten too blurry to matter. I had created and allowed this.

To try to change, I have stripped bare my self- open to examination, picking through. There are more questions than answers. What will it take to sharpen my edges?

This is what I would ask you. I would ask you if you ever felt this? Would you have a story for me? A lesson or example to share. Would you tell me to find my muchness? This phantom conversation plays in the background, like a wish within the chaos.

Is this aging? Is this emerging? Is this crazy? Is this healing?

It is transforming, to what?

I don’t know