T Minus 15 Months
Sometimes, the universe speaks to us in feathers. You simply follow the feather, drifting in the wind. Other times, the universe bitch slaps you across the face. I wasn’t sure what the universe was telling me, but I was sure I was being bitch slapped, and I better listen up.
I was working around the clock, and I had just agreed to take on another huge project with a business partner: a yoga festival. I hoped it would be good for my brand and earn to a little extra money. Additionally, I was serving on the Ocean Beach town council as an executive committee member. And I was taking personal training clients on for extra income. I started every morning with a private client at 6:30 am. Then I would then teach two classes, do the business work that needed to be done, organize details for the festival, teach another class and then attend meetings for town council, Al-Anon and therapy appointments in the evenings until 9:00pm. Getting out of bed hurt so much, I wanted to cry each morning.
I knew something had to change. There was no way I could maintain the hours I was working, but there was no way I could work fewer hours and maintain a roof over my head. I mentioned my financial issues to a friend, and she suggested I cut out lattes and eating out ,and stop shopping for new clothes. If only, I thought. I hadn’t bought a latte or a meal out in six months, and none of my clothes fit, since I had gained some weight but couldn’t afford new ones. The Princess Cave had everything I needed. But it was a little embarrassing when my brother stayed with me and we had to hang out on pillows on the floor because I didn’t have any furniture. Or when my sister-in-law visited and we had to share my one fork. Or when my mom came and was appalled that I swept the carpet with a broom because I didn’t have a vacuum. But those things were not a priority. Maintaining a roof over my head, a working cell phone and putting food on the table was the best I could do.
People were starting to notice my decline, and kept saying things like You can’t take care of anyone else before you take care of yourself. This sounded logical, but it certainly wasn’t what I was taught by my self-sacrificing mother, or by the example I had in Jesus Christ, who died for me.
I was in a state of fight or flight. I hadn’t taken any time to process anything I had experienced with Kurt. And I felt miserable, physically and mentally. I was gaining weight, since I had stopped purging, but continued to binge occasionally and overeat frequently. I had no energy whatsoever. I was moody, getting hot flashes at night, and my entire body ached. I was starving all the time. I couldn’t remember appointments or where I put my keys. I didn’t have the energy to walk a block, but I had to keep teaching yoga classes. I wasn’t getting my period, so I had my hormone levels checked. They measured straight zeroes across the board: estrogen, progesterone and testosterone, zilch.
Watching my savings steadily dwindle, I did what a good, hard-working, terrified-to-fail American does: I worked longer hours, with a greater sense of urgency. I cut out of my schedule anything that wasn’t 100% necessary for growing my business. That included time for preparing meals, daily grooming, cleaning my apartment or car, friendships, friendly chit chat, and definitely recreation and fun. The amount of productivity I could turn out in a single day was staggering. I spent every second being productive for my business. I showed up at 6:30 am and returned home after 9:00 pm, seven days per week. I saw my best month’s income at the yoga studio. I made YouTube videos and blogs, posting them to my website–and people were relating. My yoga classes were packed. I was on fire. But the fire was burning me up from the inside out. It was too much. I was sprinting to escape some chasing monster, but the monster was gaining ground. And you can sustain a sprint for only so long.
I collapsed on a Sunday morning. I didn’t teach yoga on Sundays. It was my “day off”, whatever that meant. It was anything but a day of rest. On my iPhone calendar, I had a full day. Morning routine, meet with a personal training client, go to church, staff meeting at the yoga studio, meet with John for an OB Town Council training, back to the yoga studio to write the newsletter and work the front desk, take yoga class, go to Al-Anon, read personal development and film a YouTube video on what I learned, put electronics away by 9:00 pm.
I lay in bed that particular morning, unable to get myself up. I knew all the things that had to be done, and the thought of what my day would be felt like a five hundred pound barbell on my chest. “Get up Melanie,” I said aloud. “Get up you lazy butt!” This last bit was something my Mom used to say when I overslept.
I sat up slowly, feeling sick to my stomach. My futon bed was only a foot or so off the floor. I swung my legs over the edge, and a tear started to well up in my eye as my bare feet touched the cold wooden floor. I sat on the edge of my bed, both feet on the ground and my head in my hands. More tears emerged. I reminded myself of “the power of positive thinking” or some other crap I was currently reading. “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this,” I murmured, repeating the affirmation. I pushed with my hands against the bed, but as I attempted to stand my legs buckled. They simply said No, you will not be doing this, not today. I pitched forward, landing on my hands and knees.
I knelt for a moment on all fours, sobs catching in my throat. I saw stray hairs and smeared dirt on the floor as my mind went blank. I closed my eyes and gave up. My body collapsed the rest of the way into a heaving, snotty blob. I lay there, not thinking, not doing, just crying for an indefinite period of time, in a pool of my own snot and tears.
I remember eventually finding my phone, drafting a text and copying the same words to everyone I had an appointment with that day: I’m so sorry I have to cancel today, I had a small family emergency. I will text you tomorrow to re-schedule. Sorry for the late notice.
I’m not sure how long I remained, weeping onto the hairy, dirty floor. At some point, I became aware that my mind was in a very dark place. I had traveled into the darkest space of my soul. I was terrified, yet enticed to go deeper. Thoughts of blackness filled my mind, longings for a place of nothingness, thoughts that coaxed me further in the direction of letting go, for good. What was the point?
I wallowed in the darkest depths at length that morning. It is hard to describe exactly what happened next. Like a seed, dead and buried in the soil for the entire winter, sending out its first sprout, receiving its first sip of sunlight–seemingly out of nowhere, a tiny droplet of painful light pierced my blackness. A gasp wracked my throat, my eyes shot open, my limp body stiffened. My heart cracked wide open.
My next breath felt different, more painful than ever before. But the pain was mixed with a tonic of hope. I knew in that moment that I had hit my bottom. I knew everything about my life needed to change. I knew the most difficult days of my life were imminent. I knew I would have to make massive changes. I knew nothing about my future would be easy. I knew I could, and in fact would, make it back to my feet, and that it would be the hardest thing I had ever done. But I knew that, because I could, I must… A tiny splinter of hope had wedged itself under a mountain of despair, just in time to keep the weight of it all from crushing me. 99.9% of me wanted to give up. Some divine being gave me just enough strength to draft one more text message.
I wrote the second text and copied it to three of my closest girlfriends: I’m not doing too good today. I would rather be dead than alive. Can you come be with me? I had no plan. I knew only that today would not be the end. It would be the beginning.
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*some names have been changed to protect privacy
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