Ice, ice baby

“Lift me up”

I’ve been listening to this song by Rhianna at least once a day since I saw the movie “Wakanda Forever” back in early January. The refrain echoes in my head when I’m not listening to it: “Lift me up, Hold me down, Keep me close, Safe and sound.” That song is like a salve for my weary body and mind right now. I am walking around an open wound–like the delicate tree branches encased in ice all around town. But this song does something to me–it calms me and makes me feel held. When I hear Rhianna’s voice it sounds like caramel and honeysuckle and a warm cup of tea with undertones of bitter and lemon. The lyrics seem so right to me as I sit with so much discomfort and worry all the time. Plus I remember the movie when I listen to it. It was such a watershed moment for Black women’s power. I cried so hard. I think the main character Shuri, played by Letitia Wright, feels held by the memory of her brother, the Black Panther played by the late Chadwick Bozeman. He is her raison d’etre, her reason for fighting. This song holds me, comforts me, makes me feel like I am going to be okay even when my faith in that falters.

It has been a weird week–an icy week filled with interruptions from school and work, but also more down time, which I needed. Last week was too busy. I went away to the cabin with some great girlfriends for the weekend. We laughed, played music, they wrote songs, my friend and I doodled with watercolors, journaled, ate a lot of food, they drank lots of wine, we built a fire, walked in the woods, visited the neighbor’s horses and fed them apples, drank too much coffee. It was a great weekend. But I got over-stimulated on Saturday night and my nervous system went into overdrive. I got sick to my stomach and had a panic attack. I thought it was because I had over-indulged, drinking a glass of wine and eating too much chocolate.

Then I remembered that on Thursday my therapy session was particularly intense. We dove right into one of the traumas that informs my PTSD, the details of which I haven’t really talked about to anyone but is one of the main reasons I find myself in this mental health crisis: when I nearly died from a blood clot in Croatia while on vacation in 2017. My therapist, Deborah, is extremely good and has extensive experience using EMDR with her clients. I trust her completely. We are not being reckless, but it is hard work and I can no longer avoid doing it. We are facing it head on.

When I saw her yesterday and told her what happened she was very compassionate and listened carefully to my story of that night at the cabin. I asked her if I had done something wrong, if I’d failed to take care of myself like I should have given the tough session last week. She simply asked me, “Did you give yourself PTSD?” Um, no. “It sounds like you did everything you know how to do: square breathing, staying calm, lying down, taking your medicine. You were in a safe place with good friends,” she said. Yes, that is true. Then she added, “You got to experience (the work of recovery from trauma) in real life.” Wow. I’m not sure I’d phrase it like it was something I “got” to do, as it was scary and upsetting and I didn’t know if I would make it through the night. But it rings very true. In fact, I wrote in my journal when I woke up on Sunday morning that I knew that I had been sick and scared in exactly the same way as I had in that hospital in Croatia five and half years ago.

Deborah asked if I had read the book “The Body Keeps the Score” and I said I had started it but I can only take it in small bites. She said that what happened to me last weekend is a perfect illustration of the book’s premise. “The PTSD train just went too fast,” she said. In that moment I was unburdened of the guilt I’d held onto that I had done something to cause it. That I had erred in some way and had to suffer the consequences. But I hadn’t. And I got through it. “I am able to take care of myself” is the positive image I keep in my mind when the negative, intrusive thoughts (I am sick, my body is betraying me) creep in.

This shit is hard. It’s frightening. And I have to do it. I am working at keeping my schedule as cleared and open as I can, only doing things that really help me on this journey and not too much of anything that doesn’t help. Listening to music helps. Seeing friends helps. Having a “snow” day with June helped. Snuggling my pets and being held at night by D. helps.

I am reading more, not like I used to, but more and that helps. I’m reading “Inciting Joy” by Ross Gay. I love it. Essays are easier to read right now than longer fiction. I subscribed to the Paris Review and am slowly working through the Winter 2022 edition and it’s the best inspiration as a writer to read the wonderful pieces in that perfect little book with the pretty cover. I am looking at books on southern fruit and vegetable gardening and one called “Perennial Combinations” by C. Colston Burrell. Planning my spring and summer garden makes me happy. And I’m working my way, little by little, through the Bhagavad Gita for a book club later in the month at my yoga studio. It’s a jolt of spiritual medicine right in line with my yoga and meditation practices which are keeping me whole right now.

The sun is finally out on this cold Friday morning. I am enjoying its light and energy and looking forward to a nice, long walk with Lewis before long. Tonight, if I’m feeling up for it, I may go to a free concert at the Blair School of Music with Daniel: Sam Bush, Edgar Meyer and Mike Marshall, local music legends we both love. J wants to go out to Mas Tacos, one of my favorite restaurants in town and I’m thrilled that she’s finally come around to the pulled pork taco and tortilla soup train. Carry on, friends and happy weekend!