I am just sitting in the waiting around room at my physician’s office, something that’s become more and more part of my routine than Allow me admit. discount
Most times I genuinely feel Now i’m on the Shero’s journey and I’m grateful to be alive, despite the numerous health challenges which may have dogged me within the previous eight years.
Most days and nights I go about the doctor visits, hospital accès, tests, blood draws, and I. V. infusions as if it was just something I do, like brushing my teeth or going for a shower. Just part of life. My life anyway.
But since We sit here today, holding out for my name to be called, I’m sensing a weight heavy in the heart. I opt for through the various adjectives, trying to lay state to the the one that meets what I’m feeling. Then I realize what it is.
Bone-crushing, heart-wrenching grief.
Grief for the life I used to have before the diagnosis that changed everything.
I want to place down my armor and sink in the sorrow. The regret.
I have to cry.
Although of course I no longer. And not because there are a room packed with people (many dealing using their own significant health challenges), but because I almost never give myself permission to be vulnerable. Especially around my illness. I knight on and tell me personally I possibly could have it so much worse, or that I’ll be letting others down, or that is actually self-pitying to allow the negative feelings room to breathe.
These feelings are further complicated by the messages I received as a child.
The video tape that plays for me personally says I only get love and attention when I’m hurt or sick and tired. It’s not true, of course, but it was definitely the case since a child, and during my life I’ve let that internalized belief impact my ability to see myself as healthy and whole. There’s been a push-pull relationship with that young daughter who got attention the only method she could and over who knows I actually is worth so much more than that.
And if I’m honest, we have a residual shame that floors when I remember those times I sought away solace, looked for love through the lens of sickness.
I worked hard as I came into midlife to rid myself of this worn out record. Climbed Mount Kilimanjaro at 41 (after more than a year of strong training), cut back on my beloved Mike and Ike’s (and all sweets – a lot more difficult than climbing a mountain), commenced eating organic and natural fruits and vegetables, enjoyed protein-rich mixtures and probiotics.
I was 45 before the image I carried of my inner self finally sensed congruent recover of my outer self. I thought I’d outrun my recent, but life surely adores irony, and at the peak of my ‘health’ I became seriously sick.
Being sick introduces all types of vulnerabilities for me.
Inside our current culture so much credence is located on positive thinking and the Law of Attraction and, of course, as a coach I’ve heard my fair share of famous experts espousing the perception that we bring to our life whatever we really, truly want. I’ve even been known to promote these mantras a time or two (or three). But couched within these well-meaning belief systems is a more insidious communication: That if bad things happen, somehow we’ve requested it. And that’s too near blaming the specific for what in many cases are activities well beyond our control.