During my sudden hospital stay for a minor stroke in January 2020, I was warned that my recovery would not be linear, that there would be profound peaks and troughs and (crucially) plateaus, and that there would be times when I’d feel absolutely hopeless. I thought I knew what my caregivers meant, but now I wish I’d taken it further on board.
All things considered, I’ve had a pretty fortunate time of it – was back on my feet again (unsteadily, and with help) in a week, home in 11 days, back to doing some light out-of-the-house activity in the few short weeks before Covid lockdown, back to work in a supportive environment in April 2020. As I’ve said in previous posts, there’s a lot to be grateful for in there. Aside from a shaky few weeks trying to find the right balance of medication vs being able to get out of bed, it all went so well initially that I took very little care to examine how any of it felt mentally.
I think I’d decided that I had to be OK, because I didn’t want to consider the possibility that I wasn’t. And, combined with that, I developed ways of (I thought) ensuring I was OK, designed specifically for me and me alone. I don’t think I realised until very recently just how insular, depressive and disengaged I’d become, and also how much of a control freak (in a very specific way) I am. I have spent my whole life consciously crafting and curating everything around me, or at least trying to, so that it was guaranteed to be comfortable for me, or as close to that as I could manage. Devoid of risk, devoid of anything threatening or undesirable, but also devoid of engagement, which amounts to much the same thing.
To put it another way, and hopefully without causing offence by misuse of words, being traumatised by almost everything that wasn’t in my little circle of comfort and therefore avoiding it all.
As mentioned, I didn’t notice this. It seemed perfectly normal and reasonable to become so avoidant and disengaged from the world. After all, the world is an overwhelmingly hostile place for so many people right now. But on some level I think I maybe did understand that something was wrong, and I wanted people to notice. I didn’t want to engage and do things as though I was OK and fully-functioning, because then people might not understand that I’d been seriously ill. Since the beginning of 2020 my life had been dominated – and defined – by illness, and I’d become curiously attached to that.
As a general way of living I still believe it’s fine to enjoy the things you enjoy, and no shame should be attached to this, via the usual proviso that no harm should come to anyone through these pursuits. I think where I went wrong was to define the things that “made me happy” in a very, very small circle, and also to become so fiercely defensive of them that I’d ceased to enjoy them without really noticing. Deciding that I simply must do something as an obligation to myself, regardless of whatever else was going on and whether I actually felt like it in the moment, in hindsight doesn’t seem right. Doing things you love out of desperation doesn’t feel right.
My whole life has been like this to some extent. Absolute terror of discomfort and tension as though it would be the end of me – this has always been my natural state, but was amplified to an unbearable scale since my illness. I assumed that I had to avoid everything except the things that brought me joy, and frankly there aren’t that many of them. I also harboured an intense hatred of all stress, both for myself and everyone else, as it all seems so preventable; if everyone in the world made better choices then we wouldn’t have to go through any of it. I thought my mindfulness training and daily meditations would bring about some form of resilience, but in fact I ended up with the opposite: a stubborn determination to fight against everything that was bad and try to stop it from happening, rather than find ways to cope with it.
I first became aware of how entrenched I’d become via some coaching sessions I received from a dear friend of mine – I was gifted the opportunity to talk, without judgement, about my career plans, the things I wanted to do with my life, the ways that I wanted to develop and grow. It had not occurred to me that any of those things were viable or applicable to me. Because they weren’t in my little circle of comfort, which had become impossibly small, they were threats rather than opportunities. Recognising this was the tiny impetus I needed to realise that I’d cut myself off from almost everything.
From then on, a series of steps – some of them tiny, some of them gargantuan. Restarting my musical activities. Re-engaging with my children when, frankly, at times that was phenomenally stressful. Applying for new jobs. Buying our first house. Not to say that these things are no longer stressful – far from it. But the difference for me now is that stress does not mean the same thing as trauma. I was removing myself from all stress because it automatically meant it would destroy me, but a life devoid of stress is one where growth is not possible – and neither, for that matter, is enjoyment.
I’m very fortunate: I have therapy coming up in fairly short order where I’ll hopefully get the opportunity to explore all this to some extent. Many others are not so lucky and I will always be grateful for the support available to me. I would also not have gained this insight without the support of my family and those that I consider to be my closest friends. Oli: asking the right questions and providing gentle, powerful analysis (and cavernous bass) without judgement for more than a decade. Rebecca: I have been interacting with you at this level for less than a year, but your wonderful coaching, guidance and connection – and honesty – has unearthed exactly what I needed from myself. And Rose: giving me the space to bear my soul without thinking less of me, when I have given you cause to lose patience with me on infinite occasions, and still coming back to me.
Thank you for listening. This is another step of a long, painful, but necessary journey.
The Ale Album 