Letting Go

Happy Mother's Day!

I've been focusing on some heavy stuff during the last five months: depression, anger, fear, misdiagnosis, illness, a near-death experience, and loss.

You know what I learned from sharing my deep dark fears and my private journey in a public space where anyone in the world can read it? Letting go has made me free.

I let go of my fear that you will judge me.

I let go of my sadness, my anger and my shame.

I let go of my need to help karma find Dr. H.C.

I let go of my fear that I will get sick again.

I may very well get sick again; I may even lose myself. But I know what to do, I've rallied support and I know that it's possible to come out on the other side standing tall and pretty much back together again.

Thank you for reading my story and for sharing your stories and advice. It has helped me let go.

I love blogging so much I don't want to let that go, so in the next week or so I will transition to an entirely new blog.

After examining my illness and depression, I want to keep it light for a while. (Though, if you know me, you'll know there will be an element of seriousness in everything I do.)

Consumerism has always been fascinating to me. I've thought about it a lot.

Take today for example, a holiday I think is one of the least commercial. Moms want to take a day off and be appreciated. Kids make a special breakfast or clean the house or write a poem in a card.

It's not about diamond rings or dozens of blood red roses.

Or is it different for you?

You; Me

I don’t think my depression caused my illness. In fact, I actually think that my illness was, in part, responsible for my depression.

I was whacked up the side of the head with Dr. H.C.’s diagnosis not long after we found out my mom-in-law had Leukemia. Fibromyalgia has no cure, no reliable treatment and no guarantee that it won’t get worse and worse year after year.

Young woman should be dreaming about sexy lovers and careers and babies, not wondering if a life-long sickness would make it impossible to enjoy any of those things.

When I was first diagnosed with Fibro, I spent hours questioning my capabilities as a mom. How much would my fatigue interfere with a child’s life? What would she have to give up to take care of me? I agonized over this question: is it fair to knowingly bring a baby into a family with a sick mom? Is it really fair? Would she have a good life?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that all kids with sick parents don’t have good lives. But I’m sure things like soccer and ballet and weekend road trips to see grandpa are difficult or impossible.

So, fear + long, hopeless road + feeling powerless = depression.

When I was depressed, I wouldn’t have labelled it as depression; I would have said that I was sad. But looking back, I know that I was actually depressed.

Everything was coloured by my sad, angry, and eventually bitter point of view. I had emotional heartburn. The fire that shot out if my mouth burned a path through my world.

The fire created a barrier between me and the people in my life. At the time, the barrier made me feel safe, but after thinking about it for a while, I’ve come to realise that isolation is a bit like not existing at all.

At the very beginning of this blog, I wrote “Intelligence, in the real world, is measured by the ability to communicate”. Really, our entire life is about communicating. We don’t exist without a connection to the people around us.

If we had nobody to talk to all day, I think we would lose our voices. If we had nobody to share our love and hate and fear and hope with, those things would also cease to exist. Without a you, there is no me.

That’s why my isolation, even though it was partially self-induced, was the most tragic part of my sick years. I didn’t really exist.

What do you think?

Minding the Ship

I’ve been struggling with the idea of a mind-body connection since my mother-in-law was diagnosed with Leukemia.


Some people believe we can control our bodies with our minds. What do you think?

Here’s what I know:

My mom-in-law didn’t think her way into sickness and she couldn’t think her way out. I know for sure because she was a god damned inspiration to other cancer patients in the hospital. She was out of bed every day, carting her IV pole around the halls, encouraging others to hold on through the really rough days and to get out of bed on the not-so-bad days.

The cancer went into remission, but then it came back and it never went away. She didn’t do anything to bring the Leukemia back, or to get it in the first place. She didn’t control her body with her thoughts.

I also didn’t think my way into cardiomyopathy. I did live with a heavy heart for years. I was depressed. But I don’t believe my negative thoughts brought on my illness. It was purely a coincidence – something I spent too much time thinking about because I wanted to have some illusion of control over my situation.

The atoms in my body were not rallied into good or bad health by my thoughts, fears or desires.

I didn’t get better by thinking positive thoughts; I took drugs and I got lucky. I was just as depressed when I was diagnosed as when I was taken off the pills. Happiness came after the good news.

What do you think? Am I bitter or missing something? Am I on the right track? Do you think you can control your body with your mind? Did good thoughts bring you health? Bad thoughts bring you sickness?

Feedback

Hi guys,

Thanks for reading my blog so far. Your comments have encouraged me to keep writing. In some cases your feedback has helped me understand why I do the things I do. Check out the comments on Portable Fences

I'm about half way through my story now, and very close to revealing the real diagnosis. But before I write about it, I want to get some feedback from you.

A co-worker friend who reads my blog recently asked me when she was going to find out what the heck was wrong with me. She wants to know right now!

What about you guys? Do you want to read about the diagnosis in my next post or two? Do you have any questions about Fibromyalgia or my symptoms or my thoughts and feelings before I move forward with the story?

Let me know. Don't forget, you can leave an anonymous comment, or you can send an e-mail to mckay_jenn@hotmail.com

Talk to you soon,

Jenn

Portable Fences

I’m finding it hard to write about anger.

I knew how to be angry, how to use it to keep going, and even how to direct it toward threats; but I didn’t sit down one day after being misdiagnosed and decide to get angry for all the benefits.

Anger was a reaction to a series of events that left me feeling almost hopeless. It’s an emotion that was hard for me to control. I let it consume me and affect many aspects of my life.

Somewhere between anger and depression, there was a great deal of self pity. Even though it was always tempered by the fact that my illness was not life-threatening, and I was learning too much about life-threatening illnesses to ignore the blessing, my pity and anger brought me to hurt people on occasion.

This is why it’s hard to write about. I feel awful for hurting people and embarrassed that I acted so disgusting some days.

I didn’t physically lash out. In some cases I was judgemental, in others plain mean, and most of the time my lack of interaction either directly or indirectly hurt friends and family. I carried a portable electric fence in my pocket. When I was angry, people knew.

To those that I hurt, I am sorry. I hope this journal gives you some insight into my actions, and I hope that you’ll give me a chance to connect with you if you haven’t already.

Carrying anger has been harmful. At the time, I didn’t know how to feel it only when it was useful and then let it go.

I’m not sure if I’m good at letting it go these days either. I’m still angry with Dr. Second Opinion and the other doctors who made me feel stupid and useless. But I can feel the anger without feeling the physical effects, like a heavy heartbeat and tense muscles and headaches.

Is that letting go?

Anger Loves Me

I think anger and depression are only separated by helplessness and hopelessness.

My illness and the doctors who misdiagnosed my illness made me feel helpless, but my anger gave me power in some situations, and knowing that I still had some power helped me remain hopeful that I would eventually find health again.

Though anger let me feel alive, there was only one time it actually helped me.

A few years ago I ran into a confrontational toughy in her mid-forties. Her fifteen-year-old beat-up Mercedes was parked at the pump of a small gas station. When I pulled up to the pump, I couldn’t get close enough because the Mercedes was hogging up the space. So I turned off my engine and waited for her to finish.

I watched her walk back from the store after paying for the gas and then get in her car. For some weird, possibly territorial reason, this woman aggressively gestured for me to back up so she wouldn’t have to reverse and go around my car.

Before sizing up the situation, which included the facts that the has-been party girl was bigger than me and had two male passengers, I shook my head and rolled my eyes. She hated the fact that I didn’t act as commanded. She got out of the car.

By this time, of course, my heart was pounding, but thanks to my flowing anger, I was ready for a fight.

This is another surreal moment in my life. As she approached the car I wasn’t sure what to expect. My window was open and my seat belt was on. She stood next to my car and got right in my face. She grabbed my door, her fingertips inside of my car. She called me out as if we were guests on Jerry Springer.

She expected to have the advantage by taking advantage of the element of surprise.

But I surprised her by undoing my seat belt and opening my door.

Honestly, I didn’t get out of my car to fight; I got out to protect myself. Years before this incident, I had seen a high school friend get attacked through a car window. And I really didn’t mean to hit her in the stomach with my car door when I threw it open. I was glowing with adrenaline and I had misjudged the space she had suddenly made between herself and my car when she saw me put my hand on the handle.

In thirty seconds, by instantly answering her call to fight, I turned the element of surprise around and threw it in her face. It wasn’t something that I thought out; it was just something I did because anger was at the ready.

She didn’t back down immediately, but she didn’t throw a punch either. She got back in her car after some face-saving encouragement from her friends, and then she reversed and drove around my car.

Luck played some part in getting me out of the situation without a broken nose and a criminal charge, but if I wasn’t regularly raging during that period in my life, I would have hesitated. I have no doubt that hesitation would have changed the outcome of that confrontation.

But living angry is hard on health and relationships.

It helped me stifle depression for a while and avoid one ass kicking. Was it worth it?

Has anger ever helped you?

Pieces of Peace on Earth

I’m reading a novel called Sweetness in the Belly by Camilla Gibb. The main character is a white Muslim from Ethiopia.

Before this book, I’d only encountered the word Jihad in the news. I know the media is not objective, but there are still some things I hear and take for granted as true.

Since 2001, the talking heads have told me that the meaning of Jihad is holy war. They said terrorists had declared Jihad on us and innocent civilians in the Middle East.

I had no reason to think their definition of Jihad was wrong.

But in Sweetness in the Belly, one character describes Jihad differently. He says, “Jihad is the holy war we have within ourselves. That is the meaning below the surface. Our eternal struggle for purity... It’s the war of ascendance over our basal instincts. It has absolutely nothing to do with others.”

One of my ongoing psychological struggles is a struggle for peace.

Peace is not something that sticks around when located. It’s a state of being that comes piece by piece.

When I was sick and looking for a diagnosis that made sense to me, I was in a constant state of turmoil. In that state, I thought peace meant finding the answer.

Luckily I did find the answer, but when I didn’t know, I found peace in little pieces.

About a year after I started my first safety net job, I got a similar job with a better company. And a year or so after that, I landed a small promotion, which gave me the chance to do more writing and less typing.

Aside from the regular good feelings that come with being promoted, I honestly felt that my arms were saved thanks to the person who chose me to be on the new team.

By that time, even with the medication I was taking, my wrists and forearms and shoulders and neck were so stiff and sore that I didn’t know how much longer I could keep typing almost non-stop for eight hours a day, five days a week.

That was a pretty big little piece of peace for me. Even though it brought me no closer to solving the problem of my broken body, it changed my life because it helped with the pain. And I took time daily to appreciate my new peace. If you’re a co-worker, you might have seen me do this simply by smiling.

What does peace mean to you? Do you have any little pieces of peace you’d like to share in the spirit of the holidays?