Hostess with the Mostess

Hostess with the Mostess, reporting for duty.

You might be asking yourself how someone could possibly give herself that title. Well, look, it simply must be the case because I've been hosting some pesky barnacles for several years now. I've asked them to leave, begged them, pleaded, cried, screamed, whispered, tried to charm them with witty banter...and nothing! They just won't budge.  So I have to assume I'm a pretty awesome host in order for them to want to camp out for so long, right?  

Well, it's something like that but before this story unfolds please allow me to give a special warning:  If PTSD, Anxiety, Panic and the mother of all barnacles, Depression come knocking at your door you better lock it, deadbolt it, switch the blinds and sound an alarm because once they are "in" they are Stage Five Clingers!

(And all this time you had been thinking a visit from your Mother-In-Law was tough.)

The Arrival

It was just over six years ago that this gang swept in under the cover of darkness, completely undetected.  You see, my dad had died by suicide and the sun had disappeared from sight.  I couldn't see them, hear them or feel them when they arrived.  In the chaos of mourning, I must have left the front door wide open because I just awoke one day and there they were, at home within me.

To be clear, I don't mean guests that are so kind and helpful while they are visiting that they are always welcome to make themselves "at home".  I mean the out of line, way too cozy, settled-in version where their muddy feet are up on the couch, the remote has been hijacked and dirty dishes have been scattered about the house - kind of visitor.  

Now you can understand why I call them barnacles, right?  So, how does one get rid of them? Well, like I said, I begged and pleaded for them to bolt.  I collected their belongings, packed their bags and left them at the door. I packed a meal for the road as an added gesture but they just would not leave.

Then what?

My answer:  Hell if I know.  (Ha, I'm just kidding.)  But in all honesty, at first I really didn't have a clue what came next.  All I knew is that I felt awful all the time.

How awful?  Well, for me it felt as if the gang would pass me around in circles. Anxiety had me in his clutches for the majority of the day.  Once he was satisfied he'd hand me off to PTSD so I could get a good slam in the gut by a flashback (or string of them) that hurt like hell and would render me motionless.  Occasionally Panic would get his hands on me, which was always an epic show.  Under his direction I'd be spinning in worry, with my heart racing, tears flowing and rationale on vacation.  When Panic was in charge I was certain the world was ending.  I'm not sure which one of them was responsible for the blockbuster nightmares I had every night for longer than I care to admit but they could battle Scorcese for one of those coveted golden statues any day.  And finally, there was Depression.  He was the biggest, the baddest and the worst of all. He would blanket you in a toxic cloak of cloudy skies, bone-chilling breezes, a constant state of disinterest as well as complete and utter sadness.  Food didn't taste good, sights didn't look good, sounds didn't sound good and feeling anything wasn't really part of the deal.  He is the vacuum that sucks the life out of you.  Every emotion loses its luster.  Every drop of color is stolen from your world until the only thing you see is an underwhelming sea of gray.  That's who Depression is ... he's a bully and he's an asshole.

Needless to say, I just couldn't navigate it all.  My Spirit had bloody hands and banged up knees from crawling so far for so long.  Until ...

Enter Jane, Stage Right

After an ER-worthy panic attack I landed in my therapist's office.  She was a tremendous gift to me at that point in my life.  I had whittled myself down to the bone.  I was emotionally bankrupt and spiritually void.  More than anything, my whole essence was truly exhausted.

So, she and I began waging a mighty battle on my uninvited guests.  I chose to do so holistically, kindly declining medications to assist me in the journey (however, that was a personal choice and although I'm happy with my strategy I absolutely value and respect the fact that I had a choice and the fact that you or others like us do as well.  Choose wisely friends.  These barnacles are not one size fits all.)

As time progressed, so did I.  Soon I began doing tiny, minuscule things that sparked a recollection of a person who wasn't shattered into pieces.  

I would journal, a lot.  Just write and write and write until I had no words or ink left.  I would devour magazines.  I needed visual inspiration, color and beautiful images more than I needed air.  I would listen to music that felt good and avoid the downers with everything I had.  I would crave weekend afternoons sitting on my patio overlooking the ocean even if it meant I had to be wrapped in 4 blankets and bundled like an Eskimo.  In the morning, I relished sipping on tea as if it were laced with gold. All of these things, so insignificant to some, were the anchors of which I held on to with a life force.

In time, that supremely dark phase began to come to a close and a new one was beginning to bloom.  My house guests and I were moving right along.

Re-finding Yoga

I had found yoga many years before when I was trying different types of workouts on for size (similar to the way others try on shoes before buying them).  I was always a fan of yoga but never had I fallen as deeply in love as I did at this juncture.

This time, it was different.  This time I was different.

It was a new year and I was committed to the next phase of my therapy.  Yoga was going to be my foundation.  So there I was, in my first class back on the mat in what felt like eons.  My body was tight, my mind was chaotic and my Spirit was war torn but none of that mattered because the most amazing thing happened.

Yoga took me by the hand to places my heart didn't believe existed anymore.  It lead me to a spot where all those racing thoughts quieted, where my mind slowly stopped spinning and by the grace of everything holy I was able to focus for a collection of moments.  It reintroduced me to Breath and the power it had over the gang of bullies taking up residence within.  It lead me to Presence and that allowed me to be in my body rather than solely inside my pain.  But most importantly, it lead me to Hope which I thought was lost forever.

Somehow through the magic of my yoga practice, I was able to convince the barnacles to "sit in the corner and be quiet" before stepping on my mat.  Somehow I was able to breathe my way through an hour and a half of practice without being bullied.  Somehow, through practice, the gang began to back off - not just when I was on my mat but throughout my day - and I was able to regain strength, light and the pieces of me that were battle-scarred but still true.

Yoga is what taught me that PTSD, Anxiety, Panic and Depression might have moved in but that didn't mean they were in charge.

Yoga taught me how to silence the chaos, how to muzzle the uninvited guests and how to keep moving forward even with my baggage.

Now we all coexist fairly peacefully.  I don't believe any of them will necessarily leave me for good.  So instead of putting my energy toward their departure I just check in to make sure our Treaty is still signed.  Yes, of course there are flair-ups and occasionally one of them will run amok but now I use each and every one of the tools I collected along this bumpy road, in therapy & within my practice and I apply them to the best of my ability.  Especially those handy muzzles.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Images courtesy of:

Tara Mazzeo

Gemini Rising

The other night I found myself assigned to the middle seat on my flight from Boston to Fort Lauderdale.  Normally, I'm a window person but like The Stones say, you can't always get what you want.

So, without any huffing & puffing I squeezed myself into my cozy (which really means claustrophobic) seat and got myself situated for the trip.  For me that means the following ritual: text messages sent, phone off, scarf wrapped around me, bottled water nestled in the seat pouch in front of me and a brand new book in hand. My last step is always a "slow the heart rate, you made it" exhale (since I've missed a flight or two in my day).

You should know in advance that it's not unheard of for me to make long-time friends while flying.  In reality, it's commonplace (once a social butterfly, always a social butterfly).  However, there is no person on this fine planet who could have prepared me for the most unexpected contrast of conversations that were about to take place between myself and my row-mates.

And so it began...

As I was in the process of my pre-flight exhale the passenger to my left greeted me with a warm hello.  He was in the coveted window seat but I got over that as quickly as our conversation began.  He asked about the book I was reading (The Happiness Project) of which I explained I just purchased it so I couldn't speak to whether it was good or not quite yet.  I soon learned that he was in his early 20's, from Russia (Belarus), has been in the States for a year, works his ass off and plans to see as much of the US and Europe as he can before going back to Belarus to settle down. He was incredibly sweet (the un-jaded, early 20-something kind of sweet) and I instantly liked him.  

In the kickoff stage of our chat the person assigned to the aisle seat, to my right, made her entrance.  I was alerted to her arrival because her purse landed on my lap as if a personal trainer had tossed me one of those extra large weight balls without a heads up it was coming.   She plopped herself into her seat along with her Beyonce inspired faux eyelashes, anti-gravity hair and super-sized personality.  Once she was situated she apologized for the intimate introduction, I smiled, responded with a sincere "no worries" and continued my conversation with my Russian acquaintance.

Somewhere along the way, Lady Grace also asked me about the book I had in my hand.  The Happiness Project had proven itself to be quite the conversation starter and before you knew it we were off and running in conversation as well.

She asked if I had read a few other soulful books and soon we were talking about the making & breaking of habits (both take 21 days),  Zodiac signs and what type of music we listened to.  As soon as the rapper Eminem's name was muttered a light bulb went off for her.  She must have known she had an audience.  At this time she proceeded to excitedly excavate her purse.  She started digging through it with her crystal encrusted acrylics, found her iPhone and began click-clacking her way through her files.  It was clear she had something to show us and it appeared to be important.  Once she found what she was looking for, she handed us her phone and said "read this".

And so we did...

It took a moment to fully understand what I was reading but then it suddenly dawned on me...she was a lyrical poet in the form of a gangster rapper.  Her words were so gangster I wasn't even sure I knew exactly what she was trying to say.  All I know is that her "boo" meant a lot to her, she was really pissed off, she didn't want him to go anywhere with anyone (especially some other gangster girl rapper who had some colorful nicknames) and that she was willing to go the extra mile to keep her boo happy.

I looked up at my Russian acquaintance wondering what he might be thinking as he read along.  He was just looking at the screen with a blank stare as I did my best to follow the story this hardcore poet was so eager to share.

When we finished I handed the phone back to her and decided to focus on our shared love of writing, which seemed like a common denominator.  I asked if she ever went to Open Mic events to share her work.  She responded with a sincere and heartfelt "Oh, no girrlllll - I don't spit".  It took me a moment to break the trance her faux lashes had me under (I mean, I was only inches away from them and could feel the wind with every blink of her eye).  I found myself just nodding as I watched them flutter and did an inventory of the slang options for the word "spit".  She must have realized I was processing something so she just gave me a moment as she sipped her vodka drink.  It turns out Lady Grace was a unique mix of gangster and lady wrapped up in one aesthetically crafted bow.  

As the hours passed and with the elegance of a ballerina I switched from conversations about growing up modestly in Belarus to Lady Grace's time as a stripper.  Only to switch again from homesick thoughts of the sweetheart the Russian acquaintance had waiting for him in Russia to the racy boudoir photos and selfies that Lady Grace was eager to share from her iPad.  

Somewhere in the last hour of our flight, everyone quieted down.  My row-mates fell to sleep and I sat there with a huge smile on my face wondering how I was going to give this experience the voice it deserved.

As I sat pondering it all, I realized that not everyone has the interest or ability to follow, receive and respect such diversity in one sitting.  I mean, let's just accept the fact that my conversational pendulum had spent hours swinging from one extreme to the other.

It was in this moment it dawned on me that had I not been a Gemini (with the gifts of duality, flexibility and multitasking) it's possible, if not likely, my mind would have been blown somewhere over North Carolina.    

::  Always under the same sky ::

Tara

Image courtesy of:

Gemini Illustration Courtesy of Silver Ridge Studio