It began with questioning a decision I had made. I knew right away that it was a big one for over the space of a few hours my body came down with the jitters. My pulse pounded. My ears buzzed. My brain filled with cotton wool. My bowels slithered. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts tumbled over each other. I felt raw fear.
I have experienced all this before. Sympathetic or adrenalin overload is not new to me. This was a persistent episode. This was a doozy.
I struggled with how to proceed. First I put the decision on hold. Then I reached out to Suzanne who listened and said she would see me through this. I felt the adrenalin stricture loosen a tad. I wasn’t alone. I had a friend and the start of a plan.
My body was still shaking, sweating, my heart thumping. I wasn’t able to settle. I yanked on my running shoes and sped off on a three-mile jog outside my house, up and down hills. Afterwards, I took a shower, soaking, oscillating back and forth in the hot stream for a long time. In neuroscience parlance I was self-regulating, soothing. It helped. My body settled some, but I still felt the adrenalin surge every time the decision popped into my head.
I talked to my kids. They were supportive, intelligent, and ever so wise. My heart expanded with the heat of love. Tears trickled after I hung up from our call.
I reviewed the decision over and over again: the pros, the cons, the issues, the risks.
Then I took a time out and attended an opera recital – yet another way to self-regulate. It worked. For a time I was lost in the beauty of Mozart and Verdi, soaring with young voices exploding with passion. These young singers had found their calling and embraced it fully. Had I, in my sixties, done the same? Adrenalin coursed through my body anew.
Another restless night. The mind touring the battleground of my life, putting out skirmishes here and there. The struggle to stay grounded, centered, resourced – it was agonizing but I had partial success.
The next morning I ran around Seward, my nearby and most favorite park. It has been my ally and resource for years. After my jog, despite the rain and gloom, I sat on a wet bench and communed with the grand mountain (Rainier.) It wasn’t visible that day, but it is an old friend and I knew it was there – for me. I breathed in the smell of rain and pungent soggy soil, and felt the water seep through my already sweat-soaked pants. I smiled to see a clamshell by the bench that had, no doubt, been dropped by a passing gull. The ocean, another ally, was also with me. I settled and opened to what was. My tears flowed, my heart loosened its fetters as the mountain responded to my call. I received insights about trauma, exposure, and pain.
My friend called just as I arose from my mountain meditation. She had some more suggestions to share about my dilemma. She was forthcoming and drew me out just a little more. I sat in my car and listened with gratitude.
I went home and showered – another long, hot one. I sat and worked over some more of what had to be worked through, with the added pearls, and ways of seeing with which my friend and Seward Park had gifted me.
I contacted two other friends. Adrienne and Alexandra were quick to respond with their support. They gave me more perspectives, ways of looking at the problem that I hadn’t thought of before. They furthered my understanding.
I contacted yet another dear friend. Jack knew of my dilemma, has his own, and I have journeyed with him. He invited me to a fancy Oscar celebration. On the spur of the moment, I decided to join him. I wore a smart cocktail dress and let loose with the party’s pageantry and the glitz. The shadow – the negative, less that flattering side of life – was glossed over or made fun of at this gala event. I recoiled again – why was I spotlighting my pain?
Late that night, I read an article about shadow in the movie industry. I was finally able to reconcile my pain and my shadowy journey.
I had reached a decision.
After four days of discernment, I was at peace. My body hummed with the knowing. Even when I brought to mind the pain and the possible repercussions, there was no flush of heat, no palpitations, no shaking. The thrum persisted and remained smooth. I slept soundly.
I am grateful for how I unfolded and worked through the dilemma. I had the tools to do it all. I could diffuse the stress with the jogs, the hot showers, the music recital, and the Oscar party. Using neuroscience terminology I was able to self-regulate and to self-soothe. I had community: my friends Suzanne, Adrienne, Jack and Alexandra. I had my children – their love, their unfailing support and their wisdom. I had nature allies: mountain, lake and ocean. I had my own centered-self. I sensed all as being enfolded in, and infused with the sacred.
I did not have these resources when I was younger – and I tell that story in my just published memoir titled Lonely Refugee.
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