Digesting My Life

Accepting my struggles to process the past and healing my body as well as my mind.

Photo by pine watt on Unsplash

I’ve been thinking a lot about digestion. That’s not unusual, since I’ve been managing anxiety-related gastrointestinal issues for as long as I can remember. My desire to heal my nervy belly and help others who also suffer in this way was one of the main things that drew me to Ayurveda and my path of becoming a wellness coach.

But lately, it’s not just the digestion of food I’ve been contemplating. It’s been hitting me in the gut (quite literally) how important it is for me to fully digest my emotions and experiences in order to live a truly healthy life.

Last year I published an essay about agni, Ayurveda’s term for the digestive fire that burns within all of us and allows us to transform the food we eat into the very cells of our body. According to Ayurveda, there are forty different forces of agni at work within us, helping us to process and assimilate our food, our conversations, our surroundings, our emotions, and all the other sensory input we receive each day. 

One of the most important is our bhuta agni, which resides in the liver and, among other things, helps us digest our past experiences. Bhuta translates literally as “ghosts” in Sanskrit, and that term has come home to me in a whole new way, as I try to process and release the haunting events of Justin’s manic episode and the difficult weeks and months that followed.

Talk therapy has been very helpful to me in working through the fear, shock, disorientation, and loneliness (among other emotions) that I’ve felt since Justin was hospitalized and diagnosed with bipolar 1 last March. At first, just telling my story, both to an individual therapist and in peer support groups, was a huge and necessary release, an important initial step to accepting what I went through and integrating those experiences into my life and my identity.

But it’s becoming more and more clear to me that just talking about it is not enough. Those traumas have been deeply embedded in my physical body and my nervous system. Even with a toolbox full of therapeutic coping strategies designed to dismantle my old stress patterns, calm my racing thoughts, counter my inner critic, and recognize when I’m reliving the past, it still takes more than the thinking mind to soothe a fried and whacked out nervous system.

No Time Like the Past

It's been six months since Justin’s episode. The counting of those months has been a colossal weight on my emotions and my perceptions, each month like a giant 20-ton iron bead, sliding slowly, slowly across the abacus of my life. Within each of those months, I’ve counted the weeks, the days, the hours, and sometimes the moments - of Justin’s mania, of his depression, of his medical leave, of his time on different meds, of his symptoms, of his habits, moods, and routines. This has been a period of tracking, both formally for practical purposes and also in the depths of my emotional body.

Every time the 15th of the month approaches, I think “X months since Justin went to the hospital.” That’s a marker I can’t help ruminating on. When I zoom out to the big picture, I can currently say, “Yes, it’s been six months, and now things are remarkably good.” Justin’s mood is stable, his symptoms are minimal, he’s successfully back at work, and we’re supporting each other through the successes and challenges of each day. But my anxiety and the ever present force of fear always want me to zero back in on the agonizing details.

Lately, I’ve found myself recounting the week that Justin’s episode hit its peak. I often do this recounting when I’m laying in bed at night trying to sleep. Sometimes when anxiety grips me, it feels critical that I map it all out in my head, that I recall and account for what happened, on each day of that first heart wrenching week.

My internal dialogue goes something like this¹:

Sunday was the day Justin got really bad, when he was telling me that he had never wanted to go to war, that he never wanted to hurt anyone, when he started tearing the house apart and rearranging things and throwing away everything that was red, and then he started talking in rhyme and acting like a kid, and I could barely get him to go to sleep that night.

Monday was when I called Jan and Jeff and they came to pick him up and we stood out in the driveway in the cold because he was too agitated to be in the house and he kept drawing pictures in the snow and talking like he was going to a sleepover and after they left, I rampage cleaned the house, trying to put things back together again and feeling gutted and heartsick and wondering if our life together was over. 

Tuesday was when the snowstorm hit and the power went out and Dan came to get me and carried Hazel up the driveway in hip deep snow and drove me to their house in sureal emergency conditions with cars hung up in ditches everywhere and electic wires hanging in the roads and I sat at Denae’s kitchen table completely numb and shell shocked, trying to process what was happening and keep some kind of grip on reality.

Wednesday was when Justin got worse at his parents house, when he got angry and even more bizarre and we knew we couldn’t wait any longer to get him in to see someone, we had to do something now because he was in danger. The day that Denae said to me, at the exact moment that the crisis center Jan had called was saying it to her, it’s time to call 911. So Jan did and the police and the ambulance came and Justin struggled against them, barefoot in the snow, but they got him to the hospital, and I went there and downloaded everything I could think of to the ER doctor and sat in the waiting room for hours before being told he was sedated and we couldn’t see him, to go home and wait and call this number in the morning. 

Thursday I called the ER in the morning and they told me he wasn’t there anymore and couldn’t tell me where he was and I spent the whole day on the phone being passed around and not getting any answers and freaking out and feeling like I’d lost Justin forever, until finally they told me he’d been admitted to Ward 5, whatever that meant and that I could come and see him between the specific hours of 5:15 and 6:45pm. So Denae took me, but I only lasted 10 minutes because he was raging and raving, sitting up in bed with his arms crossed and his eyes tight shut and when I told him I was there, that I was Devan and I loved him, he said he didn’t know who Devan was and he didn’t know what love was. That was the day I first met Kayvon, whose calm kindness was the only thing that kept me from crumbling, and he told me not to worry, that Justin was where he needed to be, that he’d get better, that it would be okay, that they were taking care of him now.

Friday was the day Dan took me home and we dug through the snow to get back in my house and when I called the nurses station, they read me a litany of all the weird insane things Justin had done that morning and told me they finally medicated him, not really by force, it was like a catch and release Kayvon said, and now he was sleeping. It was Friday evening (St. Patrick’s Day I remember) that Jan called me and told me that when she went to his room, expecting him to still be asleep, he was sitting up on his bed and eating dinner from a tray and he smiled and said, “Hi, Mom” when she walked in. That night I cried and cried and felt some relief and release because at least he wasn’t tortured and suffering anymore and maybe he was starting to come back to us.

Those aren’t even all the details of those days, of course. There were conversations with crisis interventionists and social workers and family and friends and Justin’s employer. There was the inkling in the back of my mind that my wellness coach graduation had happened that week, and I had missed it. There was me laying in bed in my sister’s spare room completely disembodied and staring at the ceiling when no more tears would come. And so much more.

When I replay that week in my mind, remembering different details each time, logically I know it’s an effort to control the experience. To calm its power over me, to make sense of it, to make sure it doesn’t ever happen again. It doesn’t matter that Justin is actually calmly sleeping beside me in our bed, in our safe, peaceful, lovely home. 

No matter how much I pray and how constantly I repeat to myself, “I am safe, I am safe, I am safe,” somewhere deep in my body, I’m still afraid. 

Fear of the Unexpected, Even When It’s Good

Last weekend, Justin and I ran into an old friend at a pizza place when we were picking up dinner, someone we hadn’t seen since before the pandemic. He called out our names across the parking lot, and my heart felt a surge of joy at seeing him. We hugged and caught up a bit and said how much we’d missed hanging out, before the person he was meeting showed up and we said our goodbyes, and got in the truck to go home.

How cool! How fun to run into him! That was awesome! Those lighthearted sentiments lasted just until I got the door closed, and then my inner dialogue immediately made a U-turn. 

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I started recounting the conversation and self-criticizing everything I’d said, suddenly convinced that I’d sounded weird or acted like an idiot or taken up too much of his time. I felt lightheaded and could feel my gut clenching in anxiety. The whole way home I was in an internal panic, as if I’d just had some sort of stressful, unpleasant encounter. Except I hadn’t.

Once we got home, and I’d had some pizza and a nap, the sobering truth of what had happened came into focus. Seeing my friend had triggered me. Not because of him of course, but because of the circumstances. It was unexpected. It caught me by surprise. It was the first time I’ve spontaneously hugged someone in a public place since before the pandemic. (Yes, I’ve hugged people since then, but always when I knew I was going to see them ahead of time). Hearing someone unexpectedly call out my name activated my nervous system, and somewhere inside me, I felt it as a threat. 

Even though I’ve been trying to move through life as normally as I can since Justin’s episode, the truth is that my nervous system is still in a state of hyper-vigilance. My brain and body are on high alert, my fight or flight response always vibrating just under the surface. I’m still expecting a bear to jump out at me from every corner, and even when the bear turns out to be a dear old friend, I still can’t shake the physical reactions of fear. 

Once I made this connection, I could see how it’s been playing out again and again. How I had a mini-panic attack recently before meeting a friend out for lunch, even though I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. How an impromptu visit from distant family filled me with worry and anxiety, even though I was simultaneously thrilled at the thought of seeing them. I’m jumpy about everything, I’ve been having nightmares for months, and I’m often hit with waves of digestive distress just when I’m about to go out and be social or make contact with someone I care about. 

This makes me sad. It’s pretty heartbreaking that even the most uplifting and positive things in my life scare me, that the very connection with loved ones that I crave often involves a period of intense dread and fear ahead of time and/or a long period of recovery after.

I don’t want to live this way. I want to be able to enjoy my life and the people in it. Honestly, it’s pretty discouraging. But shining a light on this fear and accepting where I am feels like a tiny step of progress. I am never one to give up hope.

Seeking Somatic Healing

It had become clear to me, even before this recent encounter, that I need to spend some serious time and energy on healing my nervous system, not just on healing my mind.

I’ve been exploring modalities of somatic therapy, which basically means techniques and practices that are centered on the body. Somatic practices tap into the body’s innate wisdom and focus on healing through the sensations and natural processing mechanisms of the physical body, rather than analyzing issues and brainstorming solutions in an intellectual way. Somatic healing can make a huge difference for those dealing with trauma and PTSD, by tapping into the primal part of the brain that thinks it’s still in danger and helping those deepest levels of perception to feel safe and understand that the traumatic event is over, that the threat has actually passed.  

I first learned about somatic healing in my wellness coach training. I wrote a little about it in this essay about befriending my nervous system and working with energies of the past as they show up in the present. Re-reading that essay, I realize I was setting an important foundation for the critical work I need to do now, in this new phase of life after Justin’s episode.

Last month, I participated in a free workshop online about a somatic practice called Focalizing. This technique involves getting grounded, connecting to physical sensations, and identifying the ways in which troubling emotions are presenting themselves in the body. By bringing attention and acceptance to the physical manifestations of trapped emotions and creating space for them to exist, rather than pushing them away or trying to “fix” them, this practice provides a pathway for soothing the nervous system through the intuitive and innate cues of the body, and opens a door to healing that goes beyond what the thinking mind can provide. 

I found such relief and connection through the practices in that workshop, that I somewhat spontaneously decided to sign up for a 10-week training on this practice, so that I can utilize it for my own healing and share it with my clients as I move forward with my wellness coaching. I’m excited to get into learning mode again, and to share with you what insights and progress I make through this modality.

I’m kind of going out on a limb with this, trusting my instincts and my body and investing my energy in something that feels good, at a time when feeling good, or at least not feeling awful, seems more critical than ever before. 

Accepting My Own Timeline

Once again, this isn’t the essay I sat down intending to write. This isn’t what I meant to publish next. I’ve been working on a much lighter essay about how experimenting with painting and other artistic forms that are new to me brought me unexpected comfort this summer. I still want to share that with you, because there are bright spots in my life. There are moments when peace breaks through and pockets of joy find me, and I can see clearly the tender and exquisite beauty that is all around me. 

But sometimes there is something in me that just has to get out and see the light, and this was one of those times. I’m admitting that I’m still really broken, that I still need deep healing, that it’s going to be a long time before I can just bust out on the scene as a shiny, happy, balanced person.

There is a lot underneath the surface of me that needs attention. It’s messy and it’s painful, but I am worth the work it takes to make it through. And that’s the thing that makes me know I’m going to be okay. That I can love myself enough to want to feel better, to want to be truly present in my life.

Three Kind Things

I’m very fortunate to have people in my life who love me and lift me up, even as I struggle. Over the past couple of weeks, three specific pieces of encouragement and understanding I received have stood out to me and given me an anchor in the dark moments, and I want to share them with you.

The first was from someone I’d just met, in an information call about the training I’ve enrolled in. I had given my now-standard “My husband had his first severe manic episode and was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 last March” line that has become part of how I introduce myself. Before moving into the designated content of our conversation, he said he wanted to hold a moment of space for what I’d just said and share his compassion because, “I understand how much more there is behind that headline.” After the call I cried, because his simple acknowledgement of my experience made me feel so seen.

The second was from a longtime friend, who simply said in an e-mail that she feels “concerned for you as well as Justin. It's a big toll on both of you.” Again, sometimes the simplest recognition of my pain simultaneously breaks me open and makes me feel more whole.

And the third was from my wonderful Mom, who has been my rock and loving confidant through this whole ordeal, who reminded me the other day that the deep pain and disillusionment I feel is natural and okay because “no one else can fully understand what you’ve been through.”

They’re all right. I can’t force myself to just get over this and move on. Just because Justin is doing well, doesn’t mean I suddenly have to be fine. He and I both went through traumatic experiences, but they were very different traumatic experiences. We were on two different sides of the coin, and we are two very different people in how we process things. We both have to go at our own pace, and honor the balance of our ups and downs. That’s what makes a partnership work, in the best of times and in the most challenging.

I’ve spent the last six months holding my breath and holding everything up and now it’s time for me to exhale and acknowledge that I can’t keep being a superwoman. It’s okay to just be myself and let my feelings know that they belong.

Thank You, Fellow Humans

If you made it to the end of this essay, thank you. This was a long one and probably not very fun to read. I’m still not sure if these essays are useful to anyone else or if they’re just therapeutic exercises to preserve my own sanity. But either way, I know we are all human and we are all hurting, often in ways that we struggle to express and worry that others could never understand. I know we are all moving through life in these exquisitely fragile, yet remarkably resilient physical vessels as best we can.

Sometimes the knowledge of that universal strength and struggle is enough to get me through the night. 

1. For your reference: Jan and Jeff are my in-laws, Dan is my brother-in-law, Hazel is my dog, Denae is my sister, and Kayvon is the behavioral health nurse who became my guardian angel. Also, Justin is not a veteran and has never been to war.