Posts Tagged ‘fear’

I used to think affirmations and “dream boards” were a crock of shit.

While I always dreamt big and encouraged others to do the same, I thought you could only get the things you wanted by good, old-fashioned hard work. Just reciting your wants or looking at a homemade collage was wasted time you could’ve been actually working towards your dream.

Now after my illness, I have been converted to world of affirmations. But just because I now believe in affirmations, doesn’t mean I think they will work for everyone. They simply will not.

I’m not trying to be a dream-crusher, but a realist. Many people don’t realize that there is a process to be pursued before the utterance of an affirmation or a glimpse of a dream board will actually manifest.

What is an Affirmation?
According to Dictionary.com, an affirmation is the assertion that something exists or is true.

I like to think of them as the positive seeds we plant in our hearts and minds with the intent of flourishing dreams. These could be dreams about anything; our careers, family lives, spiritual growth…

The most common repetitive mantras I’ve heard take the following form:

“I am successful in everything I do.
“I want to be a bestselling author.”
“I feel happy, healthy, and must remain positive.”
“I want to be married and have children.”
“I will be rich because I attract only prosperity.”
“I want to be a pillar and inspiration to my community.”
“I have a fulfilling life.”

Saying these words to yourself can be calming and motivating when daunted by our hectic daily lives. This is the reason we clamor to these words during our tough moments, as we inhale and exhale to soothe our emotions in the midst of chaos.

While in recovery, I repeated words of encouragement and optimistic forethought as I struggled to learn how to walk again. I made a decision to use my mind as a motivating force through my recovery. But let’s be honest, it only works up to a certain point.

What an Affirmation is Not…
Just by saying, “I will walk again,” wasn’t enough for me to get out of my wheelchair and walk a mile. It took a lot of pain, determination, and hard work. And these were just not physical challenges, but emotional and mental as well.

Coming to terms with the fact that I could not do something I have been able to do with ease for 30 years was emotionally painful. Something so simple, I have taken for granted, was stripped away from me. I had to allow myself to grieve this loss before I could attempt to regain it.

An affirmation is not a magic pill, despite what many self-help gurus exclaim. Saying a few words to get us through a tough day or a rough patch in our lives is simply throwing those words out aimlessly and hoping for the best. If this is your approach, you have a better chance of winning the lottery, than actualizing your affirmation.

Affirmations will not change your negative thinking to positive, nor will it change the undesirable elements in your life to desirables.

As with anything worthwhile, time and patience is required.

Read Affirmative Actions – Part 2

I have not done any writing lately. I have not been cursed with writer’s block, actually the exact opposite: So much to write, but not knowing where to begin.

In recent weeks, my life has been consumed by fibromyalgia or chronic pain. My doctors have not been able to control my pain effectively, as I was taking up to 14 Vicodin Extra Strength on a bad day, and five on a good day. They are now experimenting with other medications that will hopefully help ease my pain.

I have not made any motions towards writing, my body paralyzed by this pain. The pain taunts me every single minute of every single day. I even wake in the middle of the night moaning in pain. With its lasting presence, it consumes most of my thoughts and actions, and most detrimentally leads to the waning of my passions and questioning of my dreams.

I know writing in my lifeline. I maintain that without writing and the support of others, I would have undoubtedly not made it through this ten-month ordeal. Not just the physical devastation of my body, but the emotional toll of this natural disaster.

About two months ago, I emerged from the shock, denial and self-preservation mode only to realize my life is utterly unrecognizable. I knew my body was not the same, I have always maintained a keen awareness of this fact, but what I did not anticipate was the emotional breakdown I would suffer, a domino effect triggered by my illness, causing relationships to fall despite my efforts to carefully align them as my close inner circle.

I have dealt with the utter devastation caused by the loss of several friendships, the fracturing of familial relationships, and an inevitable feeling of isolation. I look around, and none of the people who I thought would be here are actually here. For one reason or another, they are not here. I feel betrayed, abandoned, dismissed. I have been hurting intensely.

The only thing preventing me from harboring hate and ill will is the knowledge that we are all dealing with our own issues. These lost friends are dealing with issues, which have prevented them from being there for me. Though I do not understand and disagree with their actions, I cannot fault them anymore than I can fault myself for my flaws. I know I am living with certain things every day that seem insurmountable, and I have to assume the same for them.

As my 32^nd birthday approaches, I am excited, yet in utter disbelief. I look back on my life one year ago, and it was totally different. I think back to my brain surgery, realizing that I have beaten the odds; I joined the 30 percent who actually survived this illness. I look back on my recovery from my stroke, and I am striding beyond all of the expectations of my doctors.

And I look at now. My biggest battle is my pain. Maybe it will go away, but likely I will be living with this painful condition for the rest of my life. It’s a painful prospect, even more painful than my recollections over the past ten months, primarily because of hazy uncertainty.

I cannot imagine living like this for the rest of my life. But then again six months ago, I never thought I would be able to walk without a walker. So maybe, just maybe, I can walk through this pain, and dispose of it like have done my wheelchair and my walker.

There is only one thing I know. I can’t stop fighting, despite the fact I am more emotionally and physically tired than I have ever been in my life. I know the path God has paved for me, and I am just trying to figuring out how I will muster up more strength to keep walking.

But it has to be done. Because anyone who knows me, or even read my writings, knows I just done lie down and die, I just take extended breaks from time to time. But I always get back up, and start walking. Albeit slowly, but I will finish this medical marathon in my own time.

When my mother closed my apartment door as she left, the sound of the door shutting echoed through my mind, signaling I am now alone.

With boxes stacked waist high and no one to assist me on a daily basis, it struck me how hard my transition to independence was really going to be. When I was living with my mother, independence with a disability was a theory, but now it was a reality.

Since the first time I became ill, I wondered if I could survive.

The door closing sealed my decision to live alone, but my fate was determined when I signed my name on the lease a few weeks earlier. I committed the next year of my living situation before I learned I would not just be recovering from my surgery, but from a condition that could alter my very livelihood.

In fact, it was a week before I signed my lease, when I had the ER experience from hell. But the ER experience was just a blip in the painful hell dictating my every move–or non-movement.

Getting no relief from this ER experience, I then went to Northwestern ER; but received no answers, just more Dilaudid. I was so high on this strong narcotic and still in so much pain I had to reschedule my moving day.

Two days later, I received a phone call from my neurosurgeon. Apparently word had circulated to him about my condition and the lack of help I was receiving. During our conversation, he actually listened to what was wrong with me and referred me to a pain management specialist.

I had deep reservations about going to a pain clinic. I felt my doctors were putting me out to pasture because they could not figure out what was wrong with me. The search for an actual cause of my pain would end, and I only would be given more medication to conceal the pain. Despite my apprehension, I made an appointment for the following Monday.

I soon learned when making an appointment at a pain clinic, you must also consult with a psychologist at their facility. My theory is they want to make sure you are not a “pain seeker” or have a propensity to abuse prescription medication.

So when I actually sat down with the psychologist, I was guarded and had stockpiled verbal ammo for my defense. I stared at her intensely, dismissing her efforts to make me comfortable. She asked me probing questions about my current medical condition, about past and current drug usage, and about my other emotional stressors, such as familial ties and past traumas.

With each question, I shifted positions in my chair. My shoulders inched higher with tension. I began clinching my jaw and incessantly tapping my finger on my thigh.

I had already seen a neuropsychologist. I started seeing him about two months after my brain surgery and stoke. I had already told him all of these things. When I last met with him in January, I was in a good place. I had come to terms with my deficits and the challenges I would have with forging a new life. He was impressed with my progress and the decisions I made for my life going forward.

This is so repetitive. This is so pointless. Emotionally, I am fine.

Read Pain, Pain Go Away… Part 2