Surrender

Photo by Oliver Sjöström: https://www.pexels.com/photo/grayscale-photo-of-woman-1020017/

It seems a bit strange at this point to still be embarrassed by it, since I talk about it all the time, out in the open, but I am. Being “mentally unstable” is a liability. It’s a nick on the scorecard of what otherwise would be a pretty good track record in life.

It seems I still don’t get it – my own wisdom slides right off my back. Nobody’s perfect. Own who you are. Vulnerability is a strength. Perfectionism is its own mental illness. But in practice, I still apologize for myself. I still turn red when I “proudly” discuss my challenges. I still regret admitting my faults after I do, desperate to take it back. Because then I can’t pretend. I can’t put on a show that I’ve got it all together. I can’t act like I am that version of myself I wish I was – calm, cool collected, wise and worthy of giving advice to others. There’s nowhere to hide.

“How the hell do you plan to coach others when you can’t even handle yourself?”

I’d like to think it’s because sometimes others can relate. I’d like to think that all this mess is just material to mould into something better.

This weekend was special. I got to go “out with the girls” – an event I have been anticipating for a very long time. I’ve been lucky lately. I’ve had more than one opportunity to spend quality time with friends, away from the obligations of a house, a marriage, children. Girl time. As a kid who grew up primarily hanging out with “the boys”, I often take for granted the kind of richness that comes from spending time with women – and high caliber women, at that. For this I am grateful beyond words. I am surrounded by an entire community and network of exceptional friends.

But I found myself self-conscious more than I wanted. Apologizing for things I probably didn’t need to. Feeling like a burden when I shouldn’t. Feeling worried I would talk too much about my “medical lifestyle” as of late and not able to reintegrate completely. Of course, when you are with good friends, and caring people, this really doesn’t play out the way you worry it will, but nonetheless, I had my anxieties.

But instead, I just had a fantastic time. I felt real and included. I felt safe and “normal”. It felt good to get out, and I was able to let go of my self-imposed identity as an outsider.

Afterall, we all shift identities in life, don’t we? For me, I’ve been every woman under the sun. I was the nerdy kid that brownnosed the teacher. The popular girl that other girls hated. The sporty girl that obsessed over hockey stats. The free-spirited traveler that wandered the globe looking for adventure. The mentor. The student. The business owner. The drug-taking partier. The mother. The wife. The friend. The enemy. The good daughter. The sassy teenager. You name it. I’ve played many a role. I could never be a politician. My narrative is way too messy.

But I’ve always been real, even despite my pathetic, obsessive need for approval. I may without even knowing it bend and mould my mannerisms and attitudes to develop rapport with people, but it’s always genuine – always with an intent to have real connections with people.

But there is this “real” thing about me that I keep trying to fight. Or contain. Or control. I am an anxious person. It lives deep in my cells, this low vibration of unease. It feels like responsibility, or shame, or guilt. Some feeling that I’m not quite doing enough, or being enough, or good enough, that is always nagging at me, stretching me from the inside out, churning in my belly and clamping at my chest.

Which sucks, considering that my head just wants to be that free-spirited hippie I was at 24, barefoot on various beaches across the globe, eager to experience any adventure that came up. At some point I developed an identity as the girl who would always take the first plunge. If we were somewhere and everyone else was scared, I would race to the front and throw myself off the cliff, dive into the depths of the ocean, lead the pack into the sharks (literally) and demonstrate that there was nothing to fear.

But fear has become the flavor of life as of late, and it feels unfamiliar and awkward and downright debilitating.

Today felt like a great time to start actually writing this book I keep talking about. I sat down with my journals and notes and photos and began pieces together some ideas on how to structure the thing, and in doing so found this entry from November 26, 2021 (the day after Violet’s 9th birthday).

 “The cleaning lady is here, frantically cleaning the floors. Violet is sitting up in bed, head propped to the side against a pillow, blood coming out of her mouth, her emesis bucket in hand, watching Garfield. I am by the window doing a puzzle, feet tucked up on the couch out of the way. I hear the cleaning lady say “aw, beautiful Violet, thank you.” Violet is smiling, big, puffy, swollen chipmunk cheeks, lips cracking. I catch a glimpse before she erases it from the paper. A heart. I’m thinking it’s a thank you note for the cleaner, after our conversation the night before about my gratitude for her hard work. Tears well up. The thoughtfulness, even in a time like this…”

As I read it, my heart seized. I thought about the anger I had hours ago as Violet was getting ready for school and once again took out her emotions on the family. Anger and frustration. Fear. So much of it lately, and nowhere to filter all of it.

We’ve all gone through so much.

Panic Disorder they are calling it, but really I just keep having fear of more fear, and it triggers a cascade of chemicals that send me into physical torment. Because fear feels like disempowerment. It feels like victimization. And for so much of my life that was a bad word. We are never victims! We are capable of anything! The world is our oyster! Everything is attitude! That approach literally brought me to the tops of the earth and the depths of the ocean. The only thing to fear is fear itself.

So Shawna? Stop being afraid. There’s nothing to be scared of. You made it out alive, literally. Get on with it. Stop recycling the narrative. Start something new. Don’t look back.

But in all of this, all of the good and bad, all of the reflecting and obsessing, all of the suffering and survival, there’s one thing I keep forgetting is more important than all of it. Surrender.

I can’t change what happened to us. I can’t change my own mental tendencies toward anxiety. I can’t change who I am and what my story has been.

I don’t need to. I can let it be.

They say the best strategy for a panic attack is to surrender to it. Easier said than done when you are in the middle of one, as every fiber of your being wants to fight or flee. Just letting it be is almost impossible. But it really is the secret. Be with it. Allow it. Breathe.

The day after the ladies’ night a friend invited me for a swim. A “refreshing” kickstart to the day. Zero degrees outside. Wind gusting. Waves churning. Quick little dip in the lake.

But that old familiar self that is game for anything took it as an invitation to let go. An opportunity to stop being afraid of the fear. To do something without overthinking it into oblivion.

Three minutes we stayed in those icy waters, glacial spray biting at our face, toes throbbing before turning completely numb. But we stayed. We surrendered. And my friend dragged me out by my purple arm, I could feel that sense of personal triumph. Self-empowerment.

I realize that there is courage, too, in owning my own imperfections. In a world that is mentally coming apart at the seams, perhaps it’s an asset to have so much intimacy with anxiety and fear. There’s no question I have amassed a decent tool kit for management. But maybe that personal triumph I should be seeking is simply letting it be. To quit making excuses and feeling embarrassed and trying to control it and erase it from existence. Pema Chodron, one of my most cherished teachers in life, says this:

 “Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

Maybe the panic keeps coming because I just haven’t quite recognized this yet. There is room for everything. Whatever stage we are in – the coming together or the falling apart – is ok. It just is. After all, if I didn’t sit in that icy water, I would have never known how incredible it feels on the other side.