As of this date, I have been a living creature for 18,838 days. This chapter and some beyond it will be my attempt to describe the most phenomenal 123 days of those 18,838. That is, the LAST 123 days.
One hundred and twenty-three days ago I met with a licensed professional counselor to see if a therapeutic modality known as EMDR ( Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) or ABS (Alternating Bilateral Stimulation) might be a useful therapeutic model for someone like me.
I was anxious about needing to make the decision to have gastric bypass surgery to combat the life-long curse of obesity. At age 61 I had/have numerous co-morbidities and my physical capacity to function was greatly diminished, deeply affecting my quality of life. I was spending hundreds of dollars per month on medications for diabetes, high blood pressure, depression, high cholesterol, irritable bowel and other incidental stuff in between; was short of breath at the slightest exertion; could barely put on my own socks; had to recuperate after walking from the house to the car before I could buckle up and drive off; couldn’t walk in the grocery store (and still can’t) because of hip, lower back and foot problems. In short I was a mess and speeding toward an early grave. My mother’s warning early in my life that I was “digging my grave with my teeth” had become a reality and the taste of the dirt was very unpleasant.
I was both afraid and ashamed. I was afraid of the unknown; of the ramifications of the surgery; of people knowing that because I had no “willpower” I had to resort to surgery (the EASY way out…hah…little do they know); of no longer being able to use food for comfort or anything else but needed nutrition, for that matter; of the pain of the surgery itself and of learning a whole new body inside.
I was ashamed that I had not been able to “fix” the problem in spite of a lifetime of dieting; hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on years and years of therapy; purchasing and reading every self-help book imaginable; 12-step programs; numerous diet plans including daily shots, 700 calorie diets, the grapefruit diet, Weight Watchers, 1200 calorie diets, Nutrisystem, The Atkins Plan, The Pritiken Plan, just counting calories….you name it. How could it be that I had not yet been able to beat this problem? If I wasn’t outwardly, physically hanging my head with my tail between my legs, I most certainly was doing so inside and was beaten by it, feeling very much like I had done all this to myself. The blame, as much as I fought it and tried not to think of it, was horrendous and constantly looming in the background waiting to openly pounce each time the scale went upward (or anything else went wrong).
In 2008 I had lung cancer. That was my fault too because I smoked for 41 years and still struggle with that addiction. How much worse could a person be than to continually cause morbid obesity and sickness, and give themselves cancer? What on earth was wrong with me that all those years of efforts had not been able to fix? I didn’t understand. Why were others able to recover, yet, no matter what I had done I only got worse? Was I “constitutionally incapable” of recovery? Parts of me believed that might be true, but a tiny part of me held onto the HOPE that I was not. I could not have been BORN constitutionally incapable and I would not CHOOSE to be so, would I? Some people seemed to think so…that I would CHOOSE this life of obesity and pain; that I was just compulsive and stubbornly refused to “fix” it; food and nicotine were my drugs of choice. None of them actually said it anymore because when they did it caused a huge scene with me. I either responded with rage or with tears and they liked neither, so they just stopped saying such things. They bit their tongues about the smoking, they watched me overeat and bit their tongues. Some people never judged me, but many others did. Throughout my lifetime doctors had blamed me not only for the obesity, but also blamed IT for nearly every other medical malady that struck me. I sprained my ankles frequently because of it, didn’t have periods because of it, got sick more often because of it, etc., etc. I have since learned how much brain washing bullshit I was fed most of my life and will tell you more about that later. None of the pain of all that blame remains with me today.
I had met Jon (ultimately my counselor and “spiritual director”) by taking a young relative to him for EMDR therapy, and liked him immediately. My relative shared little with me about the process of her therapy after each session, but I began to see significant results. Much less anxiety, taking less anxiety medication and showing a courage, bravery and maturity that surprised me from a twenty-year old. It takes courage to face oneself; to relive one’s traumas; confront one’s “demons.” I watched her bravely walk into these sessions to try to free herself from the traumas of her youth that were holding her in a pattern of anxiety, depression and failure to thrive, and I was impressed with the results. Hadn’t I been brave all of these years in therapy trying my best to learn to smile and thrive?
Each time I took her there, saw her progress and saw Jon, I liked him more and more. I began to wonder if he and/or this process could help me. One day in July of this year I mentioned to him that I might want to consult with him to see if this “modality” could be useful for someone like me. He agreed to meet with me and on
By that time I had come to some sense of the theory behind this form of therapy. The long and short and INCOMPLETE explanation is that alternating bilateral stimulation by way of vibrating “paddles”, in guided meditational-type sessions during which one “reprocesses” past traumas and other things, creates “neuropathways” from one side of the brain to the other which promotes or even ACHIEVES healing of those traumas. Healing of the traumas frees the person to thrive, become whole and the fully functional person they were meant to be.
Why, might you ask, have I placed certain words in quotation marks in the description above. Maybe you won’t ask, but I will tell you anyway. It’s because it all sounded THEORETICALLY INTERESTING, but I had little faith that I would ever really be able to change. Serious doubts that I COULD really heal plagued me every week, every step, every session…even to the point of thinking sometimes that it was just silliness, but some pretty miraculous achievements began to happen. Even I could not deny that changes were taking place that were marvelous, mysterious and very new to me.
I kept telling Jon that the “jury was still out” regarding the effectiveness of this therapy. Finally he asked me during one session BEFORE my surgery what it would look like if the therapy was working. I told him I didn’t know, but I would let him know when I saw it. I had a partial answer for him the very next week. I showed him my hands. My nails had white tips on them. I wasn’t picking, tearing them or tearing, picking or biting at my cuticles. Then I told him about the two dozen cookies that had been in my house since the day before I’d seen him the previous week. In times past, the two dozen cookies would have been gone in two to three days being consumed
Throughout these last 123 days Jon had encouraged me to journal…to write about the experience of them. I did not write. I did not write one single word in all of this time.
Last evening Jon asked me why I had “resisted” writing about it, especially since writing appears to be one of my very important and useful ways of expressing myself. I didn’t have an answer for him. He gave me a “homework” assignment….”write”…”write it down.” I agreed. So, here I am at
I know now, at least part of the answer to Jon’s question. Putting something in writing gives it credence. It puts me officially on record as having SAID it. People, including oneself may FORGET words they SAY, but if it is WRITTEN, there is no more denying it or forgetting it. So, if I WRITE it, it becomes real, tangible and undeniably true to me.
I had not had a cigarette since Thanksgiving Day (another of my struggles…addiction to smoking). Six days without a cigarette. I thought sure it had been closer to ten days, but no….only six. Coming home from seeing Jon, I was halfway into the carport when I convinced myself that I had to have cigarettes to write this. I drove to the carryout, got them and by now have smoked FOUR already!
Anyway, back to putting credence to the phenomenal changes which have taken place in the last 123 days. Why wouldn’t I WANT to believe the wonderful healing, growing and changing that’s been going on? Because I’ve always walked in fear of that “other shoe” dropping. You know, the one that lots of us are just waiting to drop on our heads, knock us down, knock us OUT, down for the count. Just when we think we are really doing well, BOOM…there’s that other shoe dropping again, all is lost and we’re back to square one! What would the other shoe be? It would be any form of backsliding; failing once again; old issues rearing their ugly heads once again; beginning to pick or chew my nails and cuticles again; my relationship with food reverting back to my old patterns; depression coming back with a vengeance. None of that has happened. Perfect example of all or nothing, black and white, NEGATIVE thinking, I’d say. Well, so much for that excuse.
What HAS happened over the last 123 days…or rather…what I have DONE (with a lot of help and grace) IS REAL. It IS incredible. It IS nothing short of miraculous. I AM indeed HEALED of many old and stale hurts. I continue to heal.
I had gastric bypass surgery on
At the same time the gastric bypass was done, my very “gummed up” gall bladder was removed, a hiatal hernia was repaired, my esophagus was dilated and 50-year-old adhesions from my appendectomy were “cleaned up.” I joke that the surgeon gave me an “Extreme Makover…INTERNAL EDITION.” Indeed that is what he did, but the true internal makeover…the one that goes beyond the physical began weeks before the surgery (and in truth, years and years before the surgery).
By September, both Jon and my soon-to-be surgeon had told me that my overall deplorable condition was NOT MY FAULT. No one, and I mean not ONE single soul had ever said those words to me. I didn’t believe either one of them, or so I thought. Deep down, however, I knew that there was a part of me that never believed that I was to blame for my obesity and/or any other problems I had. I remembered being blamed and shamed for being fat and then my fat being blamed for all the other problems I had. I remembered from a very young age trying desperately to hang on to the belief that it…ALL of it….NONE of it was my fault and knowing in my heart that it wasn’t.
Logically, I concluded it was not productive to believe it was my fault. Logically I convinced myself that laying blame was not necessary. During my “healing sessions” (for lack of a better term) with Jon, my body, my heart and my soul let go of that blame and shame along with a lot of other very damaging beliefs.
I know now that I will not only be OKAY for the rest of my life, but I will thrive and grow and GIVE more and more each day that I live.
I have no idea EXACTLY what that means other than knowing that love is the ROOT of me. It flows through me. Love is what I have to pass on to others. Love needs and demands that I be its conduit. Love wants me, my body, my mind, my soul and my spirit to carry it and give it freely. Love wants me to GLOW with its healing power so that everywhere I go I shed its light all around me. And, what or who is God but love?
At this point I only know these few other things:
- MY God has had a
- I never gave up trying to be a better, happier, more loving person and I never will.
- I have gifts that I believe came from God that are meant to be shared.
- My best days are still in front of me and my best achievements await me.
- I am grateful EVERY day for so very much.
- I LOVE and I am living proof that healing and change CAN be achieved.
- There is much more of my story to tell
No comments:
Post a Comment