Everything Girl

The bow too tensely strung is easily broken. Publilius Syrus

Dear Faithful Reader:

By now you know that I have a somewhat jaded, albeit hopeful view of life, a contradiction of being that I maintain with equal doses of reality and humor knocked back like a shot of tequila on a hot summer’s night. Of this disposition, I remain. If you are a new reader, you’ll have to take my word for this, this, this sort of optimistic melancholia that is a hallmark of my personality. Perhaps, new reader, you’d like to review my previous column, which proffers a celestial theory for this paradoxical situation (The Poet and the Taskmistress, Sept./Oct. issue).

Like most people, I’ve had my share of ups and downs as I’ve traveled along this tenuous path called life. Much of the time I have managed to stay upright, afloat, able to meet the demands and obligations of my life—and the expectations of me, real or perceived, from external forces. My ability to survive, and triumph over, the universe’s little shenanigans is lauded by many. Or at least I’d like to think it is. However, I must share with you the recent shift in my thoughts and emotions that had threatened to topple my usual resilient self.

I believe I am coming back from what I can only call a psychic break. A discernible tear in the thread of my soul-fabric. A disconnect from my essential self. This break started to show about a month ago, but in truth, it probably began long before that. These things don’t happen over night. They boil and bubble and brew under the surface until they, these awkward, undefined, and often terrifying feelings peak and reveal their warty visages.

Within a 24-hour period, possibly the tipping point that precipitated the fissure, I had lost two clients with the likelihood of losing a third. This loss represented nearly half of my business. And for those of you who are solopreneurs, self-employed, or whatever term you use to describe your non-W-2 work status, you understand how scary this situation can be in our current economic climate.

In addition to work drama, my personal life had heated up in ways both frustrating and promising, and I had just entered the last few hours of my 200-hour yoga teacher training program. Then my beloved dog, Lola, blew her hip out. She needs surgery and I need funds. It was too much for one little redhead to handle.

” I’m looking to thrive, not just survive.”

Up to this point, I had been surviving just fine, thank you. And this is all well and good, if mere survival were the goal. When I hear people comment on their lives, and the word survival comes up, it’s often used in a way that suggests survival is akin to actual living. Well, I call malarkey on that! Malarkey, because I wanted to find a way to work that word into this column, and malarkey because survival, mere or otherwise, represents a life not well-lived. Me? I’m looking to thrive, not just survive.

So, back to the psychic break. I fancy myself a capable, strong, and composed woman, and indeed I am. For the most part. But this recent incident, this Stygian period, my own self-flagellating, hair-shirt-wearing, dark ages plunged me into an abyss like none that I remember. To use the term, depression, seems a bit of an understatement. I was sure I was going mad. And then the panic attacks came. Like clockwork, the anxiety rose up to greet me—a familiar sensation both frightening and crippling—every morning. And afternoon. And sometimes in the evening.

My entire being, my inner Self and my outer self were buffeted by the winds of circumstance. Every little anomaly in my routine or bit of bad news was enough to send my pulse racing, my heart thumping, and my thoughts to a million sinister places. I couldn’t see my way clear to get control over the constant mental barrage even as I recognized that it was just my thoughts holding me hostage.

It’s not that the circumstances or the visceral responses weren’t real; it’s just that my mind had taken over and was delivering up a smorgasbord of unsavory morsels. Destructive tidbits that were tearing at the fabric of my being. My work life, my personal life, and my health (to say the least) were suffering. I went days without eating much and I couldn’t concentrate—my brain was scattered from trying to manage the anguish I felt under the stress of too little sleep and even less nourishment.

Then, like a gradual clearing in the forest, a way out became evident. It didn’t happen over night, and it wasn’t instantaneous. Through a combination of educating myself about anxiety and depression, just observing my feelings during the panic attacks, and the love and help of good friends I was able to turn a corner. I found a fork in the road that took me out of the woods and back into the light. A slow, plodding, methodical way out of the fissure. The work is far from done, as I am still processing the detritus left over from this spell of darkness, but each day brings me back to my self.

This bout taught me that my solidity, my inner strength, is always there, but it does take daily nurturance and reinforcement to remain in a place of inner peace—a place that no outside force could sway. The importance of having a network of true friends like Sophia, who sat with me for a full day, fed me, and watched over me like a fierce and loving mama bear, is key. Additionally, pursuits that make me feel happy and confident and reevaluating what I want and need from life are elements of a durable foundation.

Depression, anxiety, and panic attacks are not fun for those who suffer from these debilitating diseases. They are real and not something to be minimized. If you can relate to what I went through, find a way to get help. You don’t need to live this way—there are many things you can do to alleviate the stress and pain. I’m working on thrive, how about you?

[This essay is dedicated to Jessie, Tim, and Sophia. Without their love and friendship, I’d still be down the rabbit hole].

Shanna is a writer, thinker, newly-minted yoga teacher, and muse-for-hire. She likes to travel—discovering inspiration in the ordinary; magic in the mundane. Shanna lives in San Diego but misses Portland, Paris, and Prague. She thinks there’s a theme there. You can follow her witticisms and sage commentary on twitter: http://twitter.com/shannatrenholm or on her blog at http://shannatrenholm.posterous.com/.

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