Mortificatio

This summer has been the hardest, loneliest and most physically and emotionally painful period of my life. I have struggled more than I ever have before.

In the past, I would soften the intensity of certain “dark” moments with, but I’m feeling better. Or, I figured out the cause of the pain and I’m good now. I wasn’t lying when I said those things. I truly believed them at the time. I was hoping and praying that each time would be different, that whatever I had figured out would finally be the thing that pulled me out of the pain I had been experiencing.

I have a feeling I will look back on this summer as one of the most transformative periods of my life. But I don’t feel transformed yet, so I don’t want to force that conclusion before I’ve actually lived it.

Now, before I go any further, I want to be clear that I’m not sharing this for sympathy or because I need anyone to worry about me. I am okay. I say that not to dismiss anyone’s concern, but because it matters to what I’m trying to express here. I have a strong support system in place and am not navigating this alone. I have also maintained my sobriety through it all, and in a little under two weeks, I’ll be celebrating four years.

And this disclaimer is the exact reason why I have been so scared to write.

I think it makes people uncomfortable to hear that someone is struggling when there is no resolution attached to it. Our instinct is to find something that will make the discomfort disappear. I’m sure some of that comes from wanting to help, but I also think another person’s pain can create discomfort in us too.

The more I tried to drown mine out, the louder it became. Like an orchestra tuning up inside me. The cello, violin and piano all competing to be heard, with no conductor in sight. Eventually, I ran out of ways to escape the noise and was forced to sit alone in my room with no distractions. It was just me and everything I had been trying not to feel.

What I have finally started to realize is that there are certain places inside of yourself that nobody else can enter for you. Other people can love you, support you, listen to you and help keep you afloat. But nobody else can do the confronting for you.

Even writing that makes a part of me want to escape by calling a friend, doom scrolling, taking an antacid or doing just about anything that might make the discomfort go away.

But recently, I reached a point where none of my old coping mechanisms worked anymore.

It was not some euphoric epiphany. It was incredibly painful, especially when all I wanted was relief. I would scroll on my phone even though it was making me physically ill. Sometimes the stimulation became so overwhelming that I would literally throw it across the room.

Then came the physical symptoms.

Exhaustion like I had just run a marathon. Neck tightness so intense I could barely turn my head. And the big one: a constant burning in my chest.

It felt like liquid fire was running down my esophagus, pooling in my upper stomach like lava that refused to cool.

Over-the-counter acid-reducing medication wasn’t working, but I would take it anyway, almost hoping the placebo effect would somehow take over. I would nap because sometimes the pain of simply being awake became too much. But the moment I opened my eyes, the symptoms would come rushing back.

When your body feels like this for long enough, it can make you feel like you are dying. Or going crazy. Like the feeling will never end. It can put terrifying intrusive thoughts in your head.

What I have learned through all of this is that the body keeps the score.

And eventually, mine came looking for its payout.

Talking about this with no neat resolution attached to it is uncomfortable. It forces me to look directly at things I have spent years trying to repress, intellectualize or outrun.

Through the intensive trauma therapy I have been doing, I have learned just how deeply my nervous system has learned to scan for threats and stay on high alert. I have started to see how much of my life has been built around protecting myself.

The people pleasing, the hyper-vigilance and constantly accommodating everyone around me. I was always monitoring other people’s moods and trying to anticipate how they might react before I even said something. I learned to make myself smaller so nobody else would feel uncomfortable.

For a long time, I thought those things were simply who I was.

Now I am realizing they were survival mechanisms I had to learn early on.

And there is grief in that realization.

A part of me has died, and I have been trying to cling to it because it is familiar. That version of me kept me safe when I didn’t understand what was happening and didn’t have any other tools at my disposal.

So of course I am afraid to let her go.

I know I love animals. I know I have a strong sense of justice. I am inquisitive, deeply curious and compassionate. I care deeply about people and have an almost obsessive need to understand why things are the way they are.

What I don’t know yet is who I am when those qualities are no longer organized around survival.

Who am I when I walk into a room without immediately figuring out what everyone else needs from me? What do I choose when fear is no longer making the decision? What do relationships look like when I am not trying to earn love by being useful, agreeable or easy?

I don’t know yet.

And that is where I am right now.

Not fully healed or put back together like I was before. Not on the other side with a perfectly packaged lesson about everything I went through.

Just somewhere in between.

My mind and body had been whispering for years, but I think I finally reached a point where I can’t go back to being the person I was just because she is familiar.

I don’t know what comes next.

But for once, I don’t want to pretend that I know the ending just so the story is easier for somebody else to read.

Writing this is the next step in finding out.