Healing through yoga: My story
By all accounts, I had a fairly enjoyable childhood. My parents got divorced when I was eight, but I had my coping mechanisms. My main outlet was gymnastics. I have distinct memories of angrily pounding my emotions into the mats as I flipped and tumbled through my practices. Each back handspring was a one-two punch of whoever's face I was angry with that day. Sometimes it was my parent's, sometimes a teacher's, and occasionally even a friend's. The beads of sweat pouring out of my body were the tears I felt I couldn't cry. Sometimes, though, if I really felt like I had failed my practice, I would have a full-blown panic attack. Then, I would break down into tears and a hot fluster of embarrassment would send me running straight to the bathroom. Those types of breakdowns didn't start happening until high school, as I watched the health of my beloved "Pappy" deteriorate.
My Pappy was my stepdad, but he doesn't like when I call him that. He prefers "dad." He visits me often, even now, ten years after his death. He visits me in my dreams and makes the lights flicker, usually only when I'm alone. They are flickering as I type this. This story is really about him. It always has been. I suffered trauma that I couldn't understand when my parent's divorced. The emotions were too complex for me to put into words. For some reason, I blamed my dad for their separation. I'm not sure why. My mom was the alcoholic, after all. By the time I was in elementary school she was putting her life, and the lives of myself and my brother, in danger. But for whatever reason, I felt like my dad had let me down. Pappy stepped into my life shortly after their separation. He filled a void that I didn't understand. He felt safe. Our afternoons were our sacred time. We would watch "Reba" together on TV before anyone got home. I felt like I could tell him anything.
Maybe I clung to him because he was so quickly diagnosed with cancer. I knew that our time was finite, even if he didn't seem sick. He didn't seem sick until the very end. He hid it so well. He and my mom taught me exactly how to hide my pain. Granted, they were only trying to protect me from the vile, horrible disease that is cancer. However, my undeveloped teenage brain didn't understand any of that. Do teenagers ever really understand anything bigger than themselves? I'm not sure. I prayed every fucking night for him to get better. I would get on my knees and beg. I would write letters to God and leave them under my pillow. I would carry "worry stones" around with me in my pockets. I believed so fiercely that God would heal this man that I loved so dearly. My belief in God died with Pappy.
What took God's place? That's a great question. It was drugs and alcohol. I learned how to hide that along with all of my big, scary emotions. By my senior year of high school I was taking ecstasy far too often. I would take it on school nights. I would stay up all night and then I would smoke pot in the morning and go to school. I thought I was "cool." I mean, everyone was doing it so I didn't think I had a problem. I still managed to get good grades and I even got into college right away. College just brought other drugs. I never stuck a needle in my arm so I didn't think it was that bad. Again, everyone was doing it. But were they really? Looking back I realize that that was just something I told myself to justify my behavior. I didn't like who I was and I didn't like what I was doing. I made terrible decisions. I lost friends. I blamed other people for the problems in my life.
A wonderful relationship came into my life in 2013 and it brought so much healing that I desperately needed. I stopped doing drugs. I thought I was past all of my pain and depression. It had suddenly been four years since Pappy died. I was on the upswing! Life was good - until it wasn't. By 2015 I was an anxious mess and I was sinking back into my depression. I was alone. I started smoking pot and cigarettes again. I was drinking more. Occasionally, I would do drugs. My relationship deteriorated and it was my fault. I had given up on therapy. Once again, I hated myself. That's when I dragged myself to a yoga class. The changes have happened slowly. So, so slowly. But, with a consistent and expanding yoga and meditation practice, I have learned how to be open with my emotions. I have learned how to cope with anxiety attacks and share the wildest, darkest thoughts inside of my head. I have learned to just be myself. I still struggle knowing that that person is "enough" and not every day is a good one. But, I can now recognize patterns in my behavior and I hold myself accountable for my own actions.
It's taken ten years, but I believe in God again. I don't go to church, but I pray every morning when I meditate. I don't beg God to give me anything like I used to. Instead, I name all of the things I am grateful for. I pray for compassion and love and that I can be the beacon of light in someone's day. I end every meditation with, "I surrender." I try to surrender. I let go of things that are out of my control. I recognize when something isn't meant for me, even if I really wanted it. I trust my intuition and my abilities more than I ever have before. That's why I started this brand, this website, and this blog. If I can help even one person, or make even one person feel less alone, then I have succeeded.
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