the storm inside

Lately, I've been somewhat stunned by how well I've been functioning. Keeping the trains running on time, organizing big kid schedules, nursing and doctor visit schedules, sleeping and eating well-ish, pumping just enough milk. Staying positive and thoughtful. Laughing. Being mostly appropriate and inoffensive in social settings. Putting pen to paper. Engaging with the outside world, albeit from my safe little bubble via social media/blogging. I've also been reading The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, wondering if some of the traumas I've experienced in the past months have been fully digested/integrated already, or if I am just racking up a huge trauma debt that is going to take years to process, coming out sideways at all the wrong times. I don't want to relive the darkest hours of this experience in therapy; living them once was enough, thank you very much. When I am relatively calm in the face of some really heavy shit, over and over again, I wonder nervously if that's it or if I just can't see the thunderheads forming.

I got my answer yesterday morning. Last Monday, Viggo went into respiratory distress when I was alone with all three kids at a park a mile away, where the big kids were looking for frogs. I've got part of a post drafted about this already, but it was so traumatic it's taken me all week to find the energy to put it into words and I'm still not really there. Long story short, I had to run home pushing his stroller in my flip-flops to rescue him, leaving the 4 and 7 year-olds alone after putting out a call for help to neighbors. One of my neighbors showed up to get them, and I got V stabilized. 

All is well that ends well, right?

Except, it's not.

Yesterday--Saturday--was the first day my yoga community was practicing outside at the tennis courts near my home. I haven't practiced with my teacher since before V was born. I've made it to the shala twice since his birth. My right psoas/pelvis have been deeply painful for weeks. I miss my community. I miss my teacher. The big kids slept over at their grandparents' Friday night, and we had a great night nurse. We slept! Of course I should be able to walk three blocks and get a little practice in around 7:15am, right?

Wrong. I had to pump, Viggo needed treatments and medications and diaper changes and Theron needed help getting him settled (it's a two-person job). Theron didn't feel well and Viggo wouldn't stop crying. By the time I left the house, it was almost 9am. I was frustrated. The frustration turned to anger, the anger turned to sadness, the sadness to desperation. As I walked to the courts, all the emotions I hadn't been feeling over the last weeks started to well up. When I got there, there were three ashtangis left, finishing their practices. My teacher was already gone. I crumpled onto my mat and sobbed.

I can't take care of myself.

I can't take care of my big kids.

I can't save my baby.

I can't even hold my baby and walk around freely.

I can't connect with my husband.

I can't let my mom enjoy her retirement.

I can't keep up with groceries, cooking, tidying, landscaping.

I can't continue my work in the business I started, in the profession I've worked in for eleven years.

I can't even make it to a once-per-month outdoor yoga session three blocks from my house.

I am scared. 

I am trapped. 

I am the recipient of charity. 

I am the object of pity. 

I don't want this reality. 

I can't keep it together anymore. 

What is the point of trying to find meaning and connection in this tragedy? 

It is deeply awful, hellish. 

There is no meaning, I'm fooling myself.

I'm completely alone. 

No-one is coming to rescue me. 

No-one can rescue me. 

The path through the valley of the shadow of death is a solitary one.

Others can spectate. 

Others can witness.

Others can look away.

I cannot escape.

We cannot travel, or go to the lake, or to the pool, or to church, or anywhere, as a family of five. 

We have to split up, be divided. 

Heart divided. 

Family divided. 

Life divided.

I long for the life we had before. When my middle son was four months old, we all went to Mexico. 

We were an adventurous family. 

When we can travel again, a member of our family will be missing. 

I cannot imagine a bright future, or where we will go. On trips without Viggo.

Be here now.

No matter how you slice it, it's hardship now and heartbreak later. 

There is no cure. 

There is no way out. 

There is no happy ending.

Be here now.

This deep ocean inside is going to drown me. 

Will I ever stop crying, now that I've started? 

Be here now.

Can I even catch my breath enough to move through some poses? 

Should I just give up and go home? 

Be here now. 

Ekam, inhale.

Dve, exhale.

Trini, inhale. God comes to you.

Chatvari, exhale. You go to God.

Dark storm clouds rolling toward me. 

I am alone on the court. 

I am alone in the storm.

No-one is coming to rescue me.

No-one can rescue me.

Blessed are those who mourn.

For they will be comforted.

Cool wind whips around my body.

Your pain is yours, yes. 

But you do not grieve alone.

The grieving, the heartbroken, the desperate, the lonely. 

They know weeping.

They weep with you.

Now, you are one of them.

I wait for the rain. 

I long for it. 

I want to be the rain.

Be here now.

A few sprinkles. 

Should I really stay and practice like this?

Be here now.

Rain falls in waves. 

I'm soaked.

I am one with this storm. 

With all the tears that have ever been shed. 

I weep and rage with the heavens. 

I kick. I shout. I moan.

The storm is not alarmed by my behavior.

Behind the curtain of rain, I am free to express what others fear, what others cannot fix, what others cannot stand to watch.

Be here now.

Utthita Hasta Padangushtasana - standing hand to foot pose. 

The rain is pelting now, cold sheets of stinging drops. 

I work harder to center myself, to find my balance. 

I am gathering my strength.

I no longer wonder if I will stop at the next pose, or if I'm too cold, or if I can really do seated poses in a half inch of water. 

I am baptized.

I am here, now. 

I am inside the deep well of grief that comes with some lives. 

With my life.

I am not drowning.

The raindrops slow. 

The sky begins to lighten. 

The storm has moved over me. 

The storm has moved through me.

I am grateful for the frustrations of the morning, building up the pressure system so that the storm inside could rage.

I am grateful for the privacy of the rainstorm. 

The storm was my teacher today, and I was right on time.

Namaste