FALSE IDENTITY
Just now, when I looked at the date of the last essay I posted here (8th March) I couldn’t tell if it was long ago or fairly recent. That’s time for you…the great escape artist. What I do know is that it has been a passage of time almost divided in two.
Shortly after that last post, during a treatment with my osteopath, he asked me – almost as an aside – if I thought it might be a good idea to get some help for PTSD. I had several emotional responses in rapid succession: surprise, offense, doubt, shame, and relief. I sort of said yes and asked if he knew of anyone. A day later I was on my knees. What the hell? For three weeks I cried every day. I felt as though the world had been wheeled away. I was frightened and ashamed. How, after all these years, after all the work I’d done, could I possibly be here again…here being basically nowhere.
I reached out to friends for recommendations for trauma therapists all the while thinking I should just get my shit together, buck up and move on. But I could barely get out of bed. My doctor meanwhile put me on a low dose of anti-depressant while I awaited my first therapy session. The first week on medication was even worse, crying even more and anxiety and fear off the charts. At one point, as I walked past one of the ponds on the Heath I thought about doing a Virginia Wolff, you know, a few stones in the pocket and wade on in. But the thought of entering the freezing water put me off. Hilarious…even when suicidal I wanted an easier way out.
As I write this I’m struggling with my self-image. And that’s one of the big problems isn’t it? The way we all are invested in projecting an image of ourselves that we think will be accepted and admired and approved of by others. During the first therapy session I realised that my need to appear strong and courageous and with the ability to rise up from catastrophe again and again, is vital. As hard as the early months of recovery from the leg injury were, the adulation and admiration I received for “amazing recovery,” fed my ego and therefore my identity. Especially as a major part of my identity is my physicality.
Growing up in a secretive house of lies, coupled with a second-class education at which I mostly failed, made me feel that the only thing I could really count on was my physicality; whether that be in athletics, dancing, fast healing, or sex…and yes, I was good at all of them. Then came the last four months during which I made no further progress, was in daily pain and walked with a limp. What the fuck? I had put all my energy into fully healing, to no avail. The me who prides herself on fearlessness was now riddled with fear and anxiety, constantly on the lookout for danger, terrified of falling. The fallout from this was two-fold: Firstly, by not succeeding physically my identity was being whittled away. And secondly, by putting all my energy into physically healing, I had robbed myself of the necessary emotional healing.
When I write these essays, I always try to find a way to link the personal to the universal; partly to recognise the ways in which I am part of the fabric of humanity and partly to be of service. Certainly, the osteopath was of service; a wonderful example of how important it is for us to voice our concern for others, because in so doing we give each other permission to feel our feelings. To own our vulnerability out loud also allows others to show up for us. When I finally found the courage to tell my husband what was happening, he showed up with such tenderness.
So, that was the first half of these last 6 weeks. The second half we spent in an old cottage in Cornwall. We had originally planned on going there to start work on a book on Cornwall. It would be our third collaboration, the first two books being on Tuscany and Provence, respectively. We were wise enough to give ourseylves the first week without any ambition…the book could wait. We needed rest. We read, and napped and went for short walks. The second week arrived but ambition did not. I began to realise I didn’t want to make this book and by allowing for that and sharing it with Joel we realised that actually we couldn’t make that book. Why? Because we don’t have a car…and because we are too old. The other books were made when we were 10 and 20 years younger. They were made by driving around and stopping when something made us gasp.
So, here’s the universal. We have to continually let go of our investment in our self-image. Sure, there’s loss involved. It sucks that we are too old to drive along lanes too narrow to pass a donkey…on the wrong side of the road…with the steering wheel in the wrong place. But accepting reality may allow us to live longer. So, we won’t make that book, but we might make a different kind of book. Sure, I’m sad I’ll never do another handstand without dislocating my shoulders and breaking my wrists, and yes, I marvel at people who can run up steps two at a time. But I have a hell of a lot more compassion and admiration for physically challenged people who navigate the world with canes and crutches and wheelchairs.
Pride does indeed come before a fall, but humility gets us up again. Only by allowing ourselves to feel broken can we ask for the help that’s necessary for deeper healing. The help I have received from a loving husband, friends, physiotherapy and the beauty of nature got me to a place where by the time I left Cornwall I was able to walk 3 or 4 miles on rugged footpaths with no limp and less pain. I accept I can’t physically be who I was, but who can? Even Houdini couldn’t escape death. However, there is one escape route we should all take with a little help from our friends: the one that leads us out of shame and false identity.
With love,
Maggie
