Contemplating a Relationship with Relaxation
I wrote three versions of this piece during my first month of medical leave. Releasing emotional debt has been a key component to healing from mold toxicity and chronic Lyme disease.
I have a hard time relaxing. As I sipped my coffee, I considered I may not even know what being relaxed feels like.
Then, my subconscious produced a memory of the first time my partner and I stayed in a tiny house in Vermont. The house is impeccably decorated and stocked with all the tools one needs to prepare beautiful meals, and the property includes a river and a mountain. While K ventured to the river each day, I settled in bed or on the couch, fully relaxed in my surroundings, reading romance novels. I would take the short walk to visit him where he sat, but I spent most of my outdoor time sitting on the Adirondack chair in the backyard, looking out into the woods.
It was as though my body breathed relief, and I felt it repairing and humming in just the way it was meant to. My mind wanted to create feelings of guilt for not taking better advantage of the natural landscape around us, but my body was too blissed out and in heaven to care what my mind wanted from it.
I remember that this is how I felt the first time K took me to upstate New York. During that trip, we hiked and visited one of the bars in town for pizza and beer. The hike exhausted me, and I couldn’t figure out the tip, which is basically the only math I can do in my head. I drifted easily into a long nap when we returned to the cabin. Each trip we took there together felt like my body was exhaling. I slept soundly, rested easily, and felt myself opening up creatively. This place is like a sanctuary to me, where I can take gentle walks through acres of woods with the most stunning mountain view and, again, a spot to sit by the property’s river.
Mountain air, running water, woods. Do you see a trend?
When I was in London last year, I had an urge to look up the elevation of all the places I’ve lived and where I’ve found the most relaxation. Of course, the mountainous places K and I prefer to vacation have the highest elevation, but interestingly, the town I live in is relatively high compared to the towns I grew up in. I’ve done a lot of healing in the time we’ve lived here, and I’m doing more dedicated healing this season.
Looking out my window, I see the woods around my home blanketed in a fresh coat of snow. I suspect the small wetlands stream has frozen, and any flow it may have is now occurring under a layer of ice. I’m sitting in what I consider the cave room of my house, which includes an unlit fireplace. I typically spend my time in what I consider the mountain room of my home, but it is above my garage and requires significant fuel and energy to heat in the winter months. I think I feel the most relaxed up there, though being home and trying to relax feels like an effort.
Perhaps it’s because my mind hasn’t yet caught on to the fact that I am on medical leave and will not be working for many weeks. I still had the Sunday scaries and thought about work in the middle of the night.
It may also have something to do with how I am being hard on myself about having all this “free time.”
The IV nurse at my doctor’s office asked what I would do with myself while on leave, and I looked at her dumbfounded. Resting? Healing? Detoxing mold? Isn’t that enough? It is, especially when my energy is still inconsistent, and I don’t generally feel well. I’ve been contemplating a post that is a “week in the life.” We’ll see if it flows.
Shouldn’t I be writing every day? Doing breathwork and yoga? Right now, I’m mostly just washing my face and cooking fresh meals with an eye toward keto. However, I’m not interested in going keto.
I went for a massage, and my therapist tried to talk with me, which I am usually happy to oblige, but I just couldn’t. I wanted to relax and go inward. She worked knots in my left shoulder and manipulated my hips, loosening my muscles and limbs, but also memories that show me how deeply I am actually grieving during this time.
Grieving the pieces of myself that have been set aside because of fatigue, illness, and stress. The creative part of me who loved writing for the sake of writing, playing with makeup because I loved being living art, and cooking for the pleasure that a fancy home-cooked meal creates.
Grieving the version of me who went into a new chapter of her career feeling so unworthy, she let others’ opinions, perceptions, and criticism become facts about herself – without questioning them.
Grieving the version of myself who was more consistently of service, whether it was through giving Reiki sessions, teaching yoga classes, processing emotional debt with clients through Rapid Transformational Therapy, or in intuitive readings.
There are other parts of my life and my dreams for myself that are being grieved, too. But those are so deeply tender and personal that I’ll keep them for myself.
I cried for a long time for that girl, that woman, and who she used to be. I cried for the difficult choices she thought she had to make to survive. Who chose to focus on a career in tech because it’s financially supportive and admittedly intellectually stimulating, and who burned her business to the ground, letting the ashes rest alongside abandoned writing projects and dusty cookbooks.
As I cried and released the grief that had been trapped inside of my body for so long, I felt my nervous system release, too. My mind settled a little more, and the ego’s push to make things happen got lighter and lighter. This release has allowed me to accept reality, have new dreams, and bring in new visions for myself for the future.
It feels like I’m finally starting to relax.
