Simply Love

It was a Wednesday, like any other Wednesday, except this Wednesday was my birthday. I got a rock for my birthday, a bright blue rock. This is a pretty special rock, but that’s not what this story is about.

So back to Wednesday, after I got my rock, I got a phone call. My sister and I talked for 53 minutes, and for the first time in 43 years I felt seen, heard and loved. Something had changed. She changed.

Friday, I got an email response from a TCU professor. She said thanks for sending this to me and trusting me with your story. She saw and respected the effort it takes to trust my very personal book to a stranger.

Monday, in yoga, the right hip opened and ignited the trauma held in my body. And again on Wednesday, so I gave that pain a voice. I didn’t ignore it or dismiss it. I brought it into the light. Her response validated and loved and understood not just what my body needed but what my soul needed.

Thursday…

It didn’t take any effort, and it took all of me. It required choices. Everyday. Intentional choices. It happened slowly over time and in a flash when my eyes opened.

In the end, it was not forced. It just became. Or something fell away.

It was a culmination of years of really hard work. Work on my body. Work on my mind. Work on my soul. Real, conscious and subconscious, work.

Long hard painful years. We’re talking about real pain. Unending. Excruciating. Torture.

In my body, mind and soul. Oh and my heart. I’m pretty sure that actually broke.

Some came alongside, walking me through this journey. For years we explored one aspect, my left arm. Everything else ignored. The pain ignored to find function. To gain independence. To live. Or actually to simply survive. Living was too much. Survival was my only option.

I worked on two simple muscle groups of my left arm. I ignored the pain in my heart and soul. I even ignored the pain in my body. My only focus was function. I needed to get my arm back.

A search was mounted to find that magical connection between my body and my brain. Five years later, the first spark shot through my brain to my bicep. A simple flinch. The sparks were few and far between, but they were there, slowly leading me through the dark. The I deep inside, covered in skin, beliefs, pretense and any other shell or wall I can build, the true ME refused to give up or give in. I refused to settle. This arm must move. Against all odds, I must heal.

It was done with force, in guilt and anger.

Every morning, I woke with a plea, “Jesus, help.” I was locked in an endless cycle of pain, fear, regret. Pain, fear, regret. Pain, fear, regret.

Regret. I killed my mother. I did this. I deserve this.

Fear. I will never get out of this. I will never feel better.

Pain. Everywhere. Literally, everywhere.

So my only focus was function. Just survive. Just take one step at a time. One breath after the next.

Until the pain in my heart could no longer be ignored, and I sought out others who knew of grief and pain. This too was done with less love and more force, if that’s even possible or logical.

I sought out treatment after treatment. I pled with Jesus. I even exercised. Anything outside of myself to heal myself.

“Fix me. Fix me. Oh please, fix me. I hurt so deeply. I need help.”

I was diagnosed based on the most obvious symptoms. They and I saw chronic fatigue, chronic pain and paralysis.

No one ever saw trauma. Trauma requires more than disconnected treatments, more than prayer, more than daily exercise. Trauma requires a holistic approach.

To heal trauma, every part of the person must be treated. She must be cared for completely. Her heart, mind, body, brain, soul and spirit must be treated as a whole. A new search was mounted to connect the body-mind to the spirit.

She must be seen, heard, accepted and loved. Trauma requires love.

My whole being went to school. My brain needed to read and understand and know what was going on and why. And that it was normal. My heart needed to be seen and heard and accepted where I am. My body needed to be treated and cared for like any serious illness. My soul needed to be nourished and regulated by the love and acceptance of those whom I cherish the most. My mind needed to see the connection my soul had on my body.

And my spirit needed to find her voice, her expression of herself. I needed to communicate what I needed, who I am and why I am who I am.

And finally the real transformation happened. Thursday.

I stopped forcing.

Back on my yoga mat, maybe that right hip didn’t need to open so much. Maybe I could slowly, gently face the trauma as I was ready with love and understanding for all that I endured. I let the effort fall away, and realized I didn’t need to be anything or do anything to be seen and loved by anyone, including myself.

Thursday, I simply loved… me.