You and I used to fuel ourselves with oxytocin. We would lie in bed for hours – not eat, not sleep, just bury ourselves in one another's love. The hormone would secrete out of our pores, into the space cocooning us, and then settle back onto the opposite's body with a sigh. If the space around us had a soundtrack it would be the 'ooh's, 'aah's, and giggles of a Parisian love story. Eventually, after hours of whispers, love making, and kisses you would say, "Alright babe, my body can no longer survive purely on oxytocin." We'd rouse to get you some food.
The oxytocin that used to sustain me is flickering out like the dying wick of a candle. My body craves touch. Your touch. My heart had learned to beat in tune with yours. She quieted down, listened for the echo in your chest, and set her pace with yours – happy to have a mate to pulse with. But now she strains to hear you and you aren't there. My heart is tired.
Over the past week I took a dip. I celebrated life – yours, mine, ours. I celebrated the past year – the good, the beauty, the love. Then once this year arrived, I stopped in my tracks like a deer in headlights. In a sense, I laid down in the road and allowed myself to be run over. I felt the pain. I crawled under my covers and turned out the lights. I stopped moving. I hoped that when I fell asleep I wouldn't wake up – that I would drift off to be with you again. I was supposed to be with you.
I don't believe in suicide. I have a hard time respecting it as a choice for others and I certainly do not for myself. In my belief system, I think that exiting life by your own hand signs you up for karmic debt. I think it's a cop out for the lessons we are meant to learn in this life. Life is a gift, even in suffering. Even in the most painful of times, I refuse to believe that human life is ruled by a dark force. So, I know I would never take that route. I am too stubborn. I am too proud. I am too afraid. But, over the past week, I've wanted to drift off to the other side with you, accidentally. Just slip away, into thin air, like you did. One moment you were there – talking, breathing, loving, making promises – and the next you were gone – you were dust, ashes, memories, history, just a dream. I have felt that the only true happiness I will ever feel again, is whenever, wherever I can find you.
Today I decided to make a shift out of the darkness, one of many small shifts that are a part of this rollercoaster ride on the Sea of Shit. I decided that today, I would unglue my chin from my throat. I would lift my gaze from the mud to the clouds. Clouds though they may be, I know behind them is clear, somewhere.
I filled my day up with action. Small things – call the plumber, fold the laundry, shave my legs, call my mom, change the oil, get my dog groomed. These small tasks that seem so ordinary to the layman are like climbing Mount Everest for the grieving. When I can hardly stick my toe out from under my comforter and place my foot onto the earth, going to the grocery store seems like running a marathon with no training, food, or water. My body feels thirty times heavier then it actually is. I tried to move it at times over the past week and all I could do was lay on the ground and beg the Earth to keep holding me, to not let me go.
But today I made it up. I made it out of the house. And I accomplished a lot. In fact, I accomplished a lot for a normal, non-suffering person if I do say so myself. And it felt good. And feeling good, when you're grieving, is like being able to take one breath of air without gasping.
My intention for the day was "Operation: Seratonin". I figured since I can no longer live on oxytocin, I should fuel myself on other natural uppers. I took supplements that I know help me feel better: 5-Htp, Lumiday, St. Johns Wart, Stress-B Complex, Ashwaganda, and GABA. I got out of bed before nine. I ate food. And later in the day, I went to the pool.
My best friend had recommended that maybe swimming would be helpful during this time. She said it might be peaceful to float. Now, considering moving from my bed to the toilet has seemed like a walking on a tight rope across the Grand Canyon, my hopes weren't high. But once I submerged myself in the salt water, it was as though I had tapped into a resource of power deep in my body. I started to swim laps. I started to pass other swimmers. I moved to a faster lane. I started to swim how I can only imagine Michael Phelps swims – super fucking fast. I just kept swimming. I gave myself permission to take the next breath. And then the next breath. And then the next breath. When the tears came, it was OK. No one could see them and I couldn't even feel them because I was already submersed in salt water. I glided forward in the water. Just a little further, I told myself. Just a little further. Until I had no other option – forward motion was the only possible way. I didn't want to stop. Finally, swim team practice started and they made me leave the pool. I had probably swam from Alcatraz to San Fransisco. When I got out of the water, I felt the endorphins rushing through my body. Even when the heart is full of sorrow, the body reminds us of our strength. "Hang in there," my body told my heart, "I know you feel alone, but I've gotcha."
After my swim, I took a steam and then I went to yoga. I continued to ring myself out. I took the sludge, the buildup, the tar, the darkness, the anger, the guilt, the grief, the torture, and the pain and attempted to clean out a layer of it. But I realized that once I accelerate, it's easier to push forward. I remembered how being kind to myself comes more naturally than being cruel. Being hopeful is more inherent than being forlorn.
I'll never be fueled by oxytocin and love the way I was with you. But I still have the power to be lifted up. I will try to climb out of the dark holes and see a bit of sky, no matter how treacherous the clouds seem. When I feel suffocated by my own tears, I will swim in them. I'll remind myself of what I love about me – about the me that is still whole. While you are no longer here, as much as I fight it, you can't take me with you. That's just not how this life works. So I am here. And you are there. But we are still a part of the same stardust.
Showing posts with label sea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sea. Show all posts
Two Realms
Imagine a horizon line. Between the horizon and the heavens is one realm – lightness, I'll call it. Between the horizon and the deepest depths of the earth or sea is another realm – darkness, I'll call it.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
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