The Messiness of Our Multitudes
I want to scream.
I feel like a singer who has lost her voice, and for weeks has been unable to express herself. I feel like I’m in an argument that has reached its peak: all of the emotions are there, but the words aren’t making sense anymore.
I want to write, but I’ve lost the words. They were there long enough for me to introduce the story, and then they fell away. With each day that passes, I have more thoughts, feel more feelings…and find less ability to focus and write.
The hysterectomy and hernia repair surgery is in less than a week.
The Blocks of Expression
I had meant to tell the story of the journey towards the surgery. The mindful intention is there …
but it keeps getting pushed out of the way by lists I’m making for the kids and my husband of how to do laundry and properly vacuum so that I don’t find white-clothes-turned-pink and dog-hair-monsters in the corners when I return to being able to do housework.
Priorities keep sneaking up: the dog needs walked. Our daughter has a dentist appointment. What’s for dinner?
I sit down to write. I try to focus on the screen, but suddenly discover that my phone is mysteriously in my hands and I’ve been scrolling Facebook for 30 minutes.
On the outside, it would appear that I’m just procrastinating. Or lazy. There’s been plenty of time.
But on the inside, I’m deeply appreciating how anxiety creates insurmountable barriers for expression.
That’s a big enough topic to explore in it’s own book. But/And if it were just the anxiety, I might be able to breathe through it. To write it all out.
But there is something equally pervasive that keeps this anxiety swelling up over and over again:
I’m being told (and telling myself) that everything is okay. That’s optimism. That’s beautiful. And that, I believe...ish.
No, It’s (Not) Fine.
It would be easier to just keep scrolling through social media. It would be easier to let the laundry pile up until I’m allowed to lift it again. It would be easier to recognize how supported and fortunate I am, to keep the anxiety pushed down into the darkness, to just “focus on the positive”. Because really, it is all going to be okay in the end.
I’ve been given this advice by several people, all of whom had the absolute BEST of intentions. They don’t want me to feel anxious. They want me to feel good. (Honestly - how fortunate am I to be surrounded by such people?)
Then there are the comparisons I (and others) make: This is a relatively common surgery. This isn’t a lifelong disease. I have it so much better off than others.
All of this is true.
Those people echo a part of me. I have lost count of the times that I’ve replied, “it’s fine, really!” in response to any inquiries about my state of mind.
But it’s NOT fine. I’m not fine.
All of this - the comparisons, the attempts to just focus on the positives, my struggle to convince myself and others that it is ok - it is all a practice of denial.
It is a denial of the thoughts I am having,
an invalidation of the complexity of my feelings.
It is a way of staying on the surface, of not experiencing the fullness of this transitional journey. And I need - we need - to practice being more fully with the experience of our thoughts and emotions*.
Deep thought, I know.
It’s as if we live in a kitchen that is constantly stocked and restocked with every nutrient-filled, deliciously indulgent ingredients and set of recipes available, … and we keep making the same three meals.
It’s easy, it’s what we’ve always done, it’s what we were taught to do, we’ve become fairly good at it, and it keeps us alive. Good enough, right?
Not for me.
*An important caveat here: I want those of us who are supported in and capable of “going deep” to do so. I do not expect, nor want those who are mentally, emotionally, or physically struggling to make it through a day to add more practices to their lives.
The Body Knows
Last week, I received a phone call from the hospital where my surgery will happen. The caller was a kind woman who spent an hour and 15 minutes with me on the phone, asking questions to get answers to pass along to the surgeon, anesthesiologist, and staff. She filled me in on so many details, answering questions I didn’t even know that I had. And when I hung up, my hands were shaking.
I stood up and turned my thoughts back to what I was doing before the call - some vacuuming or dusting or something. But my body was telling me what my mind wouldn’t let me feel:
This is REAL. You are (rightfully) anxious. There is more to this than “just” a physical procedure.
Beyond “It’s Fine”
Bit by bit, I’m allowing myself to feel. This morning, I recorded a long list of questions that have no answers. I let these questions bubble up from that pit of anxiety.
I share these for those who might find themselves in a relatable situation, but also to offer a peek behind the curtain of “IT’S FINE”.
What will it feel like to not have a uterus? What will my body look like when I’m completely anesthetized - who will see me, who will be touching and moving my body as I have no control nor awareness? What if I physically heal quickly, but mentally / emotionally am still processing it all - will I be expected to return to “normalcy” before I’m ready? Will it be psychologically difficult to return to strength movements? Will I gain weight from over-indulging in food to compensate for the lack of control I feel in other areas?
And so many more.
I choose to journey into these thoughts and my emotions. And I feel called to share them. As one of my favorite quotes goes (that I’ve shared multiple times),
I practice loudly so that others do not have to suffer quietly.*
*original quote: “I recover loudly so that others do not have to suffer quietly”,
by @overheardinaa
I am fortunate: I could easily survive based on the support that I have - access to good doctors and healthcare, financial resources to make this happen, a loving and healthy family who can physically care for me, and so on. And. I don’t want to just survive.
I look to live beyond survival. I want to feel life in its fullest. I want to live as deeply as possible.
But it ain’t easy.
I WANT to live life to its fullest, yes. But just because we have the desire, the time, the space, the support to do something doesn’t mean that the path is easy, or even possible. I’ve come to realize that so much of why I can’t write - why I feel like that singer without a voice - is because I’m trying to convince myself that it is okay to feel this way.
I’m trying to convince myself that it’s okay to feel fortunate and unfortunate, confident and anxious, supported and alone.
I often repeat the quote,
Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.
-Walt Whitman
I logically believe it. But anxiety isn’t bound by logic.
Each time I sit down to share, a voice pops up in contradiction to everything I write. “I’m feeling anxious” (yes, BUT…) “Things are good, and we are so fortunate!” (yes, BUT….) “This is a minor procedure” (yes, BUT…) “This is a major transition” (yes, BUT…)
Feeling Our Multitudes
I’m holding it all together because I have to. I’m sharing all of this because I want to.
I don’t want to stop (over)planning and instructing my family members how to do our laundry. And I don’t want to stop feeling anxious. I won’t stop feeling fortunate and blessed and deeply grateful for being supported
and
I won’t stop feeling my shaking hands and burning chest (where I tend to feel my anxiety most strongly). I won’t reject any of it.
Chances are that you are not within a week of a surgery. But if you are, … or if you are just struggling in life to express yourself right now,
or if you have hundreds of unreplied to texts, emails, and messages because you cannot bring yourself to reply,
or if you feel anxious and can’t quite put your finger on it,
or if you are doing and feeling just fine but have concerns about someone who isn’t,
or if you feel so disconnected that you have no idea what you are feeling,
this is why I share. This is why I’m grateful you took the time to read all of this.
No answers. We are just living the questions, and recognizing how important that it is that we do so.
Full breaths, we march (and stumble and dance and trip and skip) on with our multitudes.